Gotham Knight
by ParabolicHamartia
Summary: Bruce has finally returned to act as Gotham's protector. Gordon and Bullock are hunting down a vigilante. Selina is looking for her next heist. Penguin has been released. Riddler has escaped. A young thief is finding his way through the underworld. New and old threats are on the horizon. All the while, someone waits in the shadows and laughs at the chaos. Season 6/Alt 10 yr skip
1. Vigilante

1\. Vigilante

The stories all went the same.

"So, I was minding my own business, you see."

That was a lie. It was more like they were committing a crime: robbery, dealing narcotics, muggings—smalltime crime, usually single perp. Those perps were the targets.

"Then all of a sudden, there's this shadow."

"I mean it's a huge shadow, like a giant man."

"It wasn't no guy, it was a demon."

"I don't know what I saw, man, but it was freaking scary."

Big, black, man-shaped, scary as hell: those were the descriptors that stayed consistent through every story.

"Next thing I know, I'm pinned against the frickin' wall and my arm gets snapped!"

"It flew at me, kicked me in the teeth with its talons; my head got all fuzzy."

"I was dragged by a wire, my leg popped, and I passed out."

"I got a knife in my hand, pinned me against the table! I couldn't move! Then it came up and slammed my head into the table!"

An act of violence usually followed by an anonymous tip to the police. The only thing the officers would find would be evidence of a crime in progress and a bruised, bloodied, incapacitated criminal.

Then there was the final plea that went something along the lines of, "I swear, I'm not lying."

"I know what I saw!"

"You've got to believe me!"

Gordon sighed as the latest story came to a close like so many others, "Yeah, sure, I believe you, Walker." He closed the case file and stood. "Anything else come to mind before I go?"

The beady eyed man took a second to think, "Can I go to the hospital now? I've told this story four times and my wrist's been killing me the past twelve hours." He held up his hand to show the fractured wrist as it bent prematurely.

Gordon waved dismissively at the one-way mirror as a signal to patch the criminal up and turned to leave.

"This is big, right?" The man asked; Gordon sighed as he stopped at the door. "Like I read about other freaky stuff happening like this, but I didn't believe it. It must be pretty big if the comish' is on the case." He licked his lips. "I could give a description; I think I saw a bit of his face—no, I saw his face. I can tell you in detail who it looked like, and, in return, I could have a little leeway when it comes to the judge."

"Get in line with every other criminal who could describe him perfectly," Gordon huffed, honestly; they were becoming clichéd. "You want leeway, Walker, don't rob ATMs."

Gordon stepped out of the room and rubbed his temples. The victim, if he would even dare call him that, was the twelfth that month; there had been fifteen the month before, and a varying number—depending on who you asked—the month before that. Those were just the ones that were reported. Even before that, there were criminals who had been taken in screaming about a shadow attacking them. Why Gordon was only hearing about it now was beyond him. He had an inkling of why he hadn't—no one cared for the common criminal. All of those who had been beaten had been common thugs with no real gang affiliations to speak. They were nobody criminals, and their pain was inconsequential. Gordon would almost agree, but his affinity for the rules prevented him from letting such violence to flourish. The only reason the reports reached him three weeks ago was because different gangs were being hit by a perp with a similar MO. There was only one conceivable person behind the attacks: a vigilante.

Gordon retreated to his office. It was a spacious place located in the main GCPD building. After the events of No Man's Land, the city had funded massive remodeling efforts to every facet of city property. So, Gordon requested an office, not one that was stuck in some off-site building surrounded by bureaucrats. His walled office sat on top of the Captain's office. It was nice, organized and allowed him to think without the alienation of a city hall office and without the noise of simply sitting out on the GCPD floor. Plus, he got to oversee the entirety of the operation from above.

Gordon read over the file again in the dim light of the desk lamp. The sun was setting in the window behind him and he knew he couldn't pull another all-nighter. Tonight, was a special night. It was fine, this case wasn't going to be solved in a couple of hours. He could leave it for tomorrow. Still, it fascinated Gordon. The hits were not localized to a single area of Gotham. While most of the singular hits were in the Narrows there were a number of crimes stopped in the Diamond District or the Bowery, little hotspots where these other victims were picked off. This wasn't some loon just walking around with a baseball bat looking for trouble; this was coordinated. Gordon suspected that there could even be multiples; just what he needed: a vigilante group.

There was a knock on the door; in stepped Harvey Bullock.

"You're still here?" Harvey asked a little incredulously. "Five o'clock was three hours ago."

Gordon set the report down and tapped it with a finger, "New victim of our vigilante friend. They insisted I sit in on it. Learned nothing; he didn't even know what hit him."

"Oh yeah," Harvey took a seat across the desk. "Demon man, he scares the crap out of the lower guys—he's become something like local legend."

"Making our jobs easier," Gordon said sardonically. "I might let him stay a while."

"I dunno'; I don't like the vigilante types," Bullock shook his head.

"No heroes in Gotham?" Gordon questioned using a phrase he had heard Bullock utter many times over their career together.

"Yeah, there's that. Then there's the mudding of the water. Vigilantes always get in trouble by breaking the law and always get someone hurt before they do any good."

"Then you won't mind if I make you head of the investigation," Gordon slid the case forward so that it touched Harvey's hand.

"Sure," Bullock chuckled a bit and took the case, "wear my ass out before I retire."

"Have to make use of you while I can."

Harvey sighed, "Two more years and it's Pina coladas in Fiji, and home will be on the beaches."

"Speaking of home," Gordon stood suddenly. "I better get back. It's her night with me."

"Tell the little miss I said hi," Harvey smiled as he opened the file and looked inside.

Gordon nodded his goodbye and before he knew it he was on the road home. Gordon drove through the streets; his window was down, and the cool evening summer breeze blew through the breaks in the buildings. The sun was long gone at this point. He hated taking up so much time at his job, today especially.

Things had been so different over the past couple of years and yet so similar. Despite the absolute chaos of No Man's Land, the Gotham way of life had slowly started to piece its way back together. The streets that he remembered being wrecked by violent mobs were now long restored and about three years ago things were finally starting to feel normal again. The last casualty of No Man's Land was the Wayne tower, and, in just a few days, it was going to be restored. Despite the apparent rebuilding of the past several years, it didn't come with peace.

Now the crime was underground again, and in full force. The past several years had been a nonstop train of crime and criminals. After No Man's Land and the capture of the Penguin, there was territory up for grabs. The immediate gang wars had been violent, but the military occupation soon assisted in putting them down. The chaos also scared off businesses from the area; this caused major unemployment and unsurprisingly lots of petty crime. Gordon had been busy—too busy—for the past several years. It was grating on him; sucking out what life he had left. One gang was replaced with another almost like a hydra, and things had never been the same since No Man's Land. People just seemed crazier, less stable than they had been before—and that was saying something in Gotham.

Gordon was tired, not just in a work sense but in his will power. The city was leeching him dry; he knew it. The thought of retirement pinged around in his mind constantly as did a much more damning thought: what if something happens and you're not around to stop it. It was a thought that had followed him around since some of his first cases and was reinforced during events like the Tetch Virus Incident and No Man's Land. He knew he could just leave the job to someone else, someone capable, but would they have the ability to protect the city like he had? It was an egocentric and paranoid thought, something that Lee would dispel instantly. It was like he had an addiction to the job; like it or not, he knew he wasn't going to leave anytime soon.

A scream emanated from the streets. Gordon slowed down as he heard it; his police training kicking in as he searched for the origin. The scream happened again, this time from the alley way to his immediate left. Gordon quickly went to dispatch: five minutes out. There was the sound of a firearm discharge. That was too late. Gordon got out of his car, drew his pistol, and charged into the alley.

* * *

A hooded figure climbed the fire escape to the midlevel apartment building. The figure had staked out the area a while ago. No one home, weeklong vacation, no alarms or animals: perfect. He reached into his bag and pulled out a crowbar—time to work.

The figure had managed to open the window with little effort; just a crowbar applied to the bottom of the window. With that, he snuck into the apartment with ease. He stepped onto the kitchen counter and hopped down onto the floor. A feeling of satisfaction welled up in him; this was the fun part. He pulled open his backpack and went to work. The silverware was first to go, then he scrounged around the bedroom for jewelry: emeralds—score! Next, he searched for small electronics that he could pocket, but it seemed they had left with them. He did manage to pocket a gold-lined watch that he found unattended in the bathroom. All-in-all, it was probably worth a couple grand—his best score in a long time.

Finally, came his favorite part of the job: the fridge. No matter how much he made—stolen food just tasted better than store bought. He opened it up and was pleasantly surprised to find that there was an assortment of food to choose from, including a cake. He quickly stuck his finger into the frosting and licked it—it had been a while since he had sugar. He couldn't take it with him, too messy. He opted for some soda and chilled breakfast bars—easily transported goods. With his backpack full, he slipped back out the window he came through.

The figure slid the window back into place and continued to remain quiet. There was a sudden scream from the alleyway below. The hooded thief looked over the side rail to see the origin of the sound. Below there was a man grabbing a woman by the wrist and pushing her against the wall with a gun.

"All your money, now!"

The hooded figure rolled his eyes, unoriginal. He would have to wait out the crime in progress to avoid being spotted. He silently slid into a crouch and waited. He personally detested the idea of muggings. If people left their stuff unattended or were too dense to feel a hand in their pocket, that was fair game. Muggings were for the violent, unskilled, stupid criminals who didn't spend enough time to plot out their theft. All they did was terrify someone half to death or worse for twenty bucks. He allowed his gaze to drift.

Suddenly, something caught the corner of his eye. He barely noticed it at first, but the sudden movement drew his eye to it immediately. Contrasted against the moonlit sky on the roof of the building across the alleyway, a shadow peered down into the alley. The hooded figure almost jumped as he saw it looming over the scene; he forced himself to remain still and quiet in fear of alerting it. It was black, tall, had some sort of horns, and a cape that flowed out behind it. He stood breathless as it crouched down quickly. The thief wondered if the shadow was looking at him.

It jumped. The hooded figure looked over the railing to watch the shadow's descent. The figure thought there would be a kind of _splat _or _thud _or something, but the cape billowed open and softened the fall. All of this was impossibly silent.

"What the—" that was all the mugger got out. There was a crunch as his face was slammed into the concrete wall. The gun discharged, sending a bullet into the adjacent apartment building wall. The woman screamed and escaped towards the mouth of the alley way. The hooded figure was entranced as he saw the mugger quickly incapacitated by the shadow. It only took a split second for the mugger to be on the ground.

"Holy crap," the thief breathed.

It was absolutely terrifying. In a split second he knew it was the urban legend that had been going around in the Narrows. Someone, or something, was taking down criminals, just like he had witnessed. Despite the initial terror, there was a well of excitement that built up in him. The thing had just taken down some scum; that was great in his book—finally some sort of justice. Though the terror returned as he realized that, in the absence of a mugger, he would probably be the one on the ground. Still he couldn't stop the smile on his face as the mugger's head got slammed into the wall.

"Hey!" The hooded thief and the shadow glanced in the direction of the sudden shout. A middle-aged man stepped into the alley way and held up a gun. "GCPD drop to the—"

There was the sound of air being released and metal scraped concrete. Suddenly the shadow was jerked upward. The thief watched in amazement as the shadow practically flew up into the air. The shadow passed the fire escape landing with the sound of the flapping cape. For a split moment, the thief caught the outline of a man, arm raised as if pulled by a line. Then it disappeared over the edge of the building above him. The sudden shock of the figures assent caused the thief to stumble back and slam into the metal frame of the fire escape.

The thief scrambled to his feet, making even more noise. He quickly looked up, checking to see if the shadow was indeed gone. Entranced by the thing, he leaned over the side of the fire escape to get a better view: gone. He felt a sigh of relief escape his lips.

"GCPD, come on down," the police officer called from below.

The thief swallowed; he'd completely forgotten the officer below. He quickly looked over the railing and thought. Turn himself in: no chance in hell. He started up the ladder of the fire escape.

"Hey! Stop!"

The thief scrambled up the fire escape as the pursuing cop started to climb the lower ladder. Still shaken from the encounter, the thief scrambled up the ladders. Finally, the thief reached the roof. He just needed to make a daring escape over the rooftops. The thought persisted until the thief reached the edge of the rooftop. The buildings were simply too far apart. He swallowed as vertigo overtook him. The thief cursed and took off his backpack. He took one long look at it, prayed to whatever deity could hear him, and tossed the backpack into the alley below. It made a _thud _as it hit the wet earth.

"Come on, I won't hurt you, I just want to talk." The out of breath policeman called out to him. The hooded figure hesitated to turn around.

He looked down again. It was a five-story drop—no way he wasn't going to the hospital after that. He looked across to the adjacent building—twelve feet across. He could make the jump to the fire escape opposite him—right? He just needed to back up and take the leap. Then he could catch the bar with his hands and slip down. The figure readied to bolt.

"Come on, you can come with me to the station, or you can come to the station after breaking your legs," the policeman shouted.

The figure sighed, the policeman was right, "Damn it." He moved his hands slowly up next to his ears and spread his fingers.

Gordon gradually approached the short thief. He holstered his weapon; if what he assumed was correct, he wouldn't need it. As he approached, the hooded thief's fingers twitched, and he glanced back for a split second. Gordon knew it was coming. The thief kicked backwards in a side kick; Gordon caught the leg with one arm. The thief attempted to wrench back but instead, lost footing and stumbled back towards the edge. Gordon grabbed the jacket and pulled the thief back to safety. The thief shook for a moment, paralyzed from the fear of almost falling off the building.

Gordon took the frightful opportunity to pull the hooded figure in and grab him by the shoulder. He ripped the hood off; just as he had suspected. The kid couldn't have been older than thirteen; red hair poked out in different directions. The kid was shaken out of his trance and attempted to wrench away to no avail.

Gordon sighed as he grabbed the teenager by the arm and yanked him along, "They keep getting younger every year."

* * *

Alfred was waiting yet again. He thought he was done waiting. He had spent years doing it, and it didn't suit him. In his younger years, he had always been a man of action; now his age and inability to act frustrated him more than anything. Now the one person who could act wasn't responding on his communicator—which worried him beyond belief. So, now all he could do was wait in the dark cave.

Finally, there was a small alarm that buzzed throughout the cavern, and Alfred let out a sigh. He stood from his tense placement at the computer and stood on the metal walkway. There was a screeching noise and suddenly a black, armored vehicle skidded to a halt in front of the butler. In a split second, a darkly clad figure emerged from the driver's seat and brushed past him. Alfred, without hesitation, strode along behind the figure.

"I was promised you'd pop in by two; it is now three forty-five," Alfred spoke; any form of worry was smothered in sarcasm. "I'll have to re-heat the dinner."

"There was a lead, I followed it." The figure responded; there was a pause of silence before the answer, "Sorry for not responding; the communicator malfunctioned. We'll need to fix it."

"Well, let's be glad it was another test run; best get Lucius on it immediately," Alfred was relieved that it was only a bug in a system. "In any case, it's good to have you back, sir."

Bruce allowed something like a smile to cross his face as he disconnected the cowl from the rest of the body armor, "Good to be back."

* * *

**So, if you've read my other story, _Best Friends_, this story does kind of cross over with that one. While I do recommend you go read it, you do not have to in order to enjoy the story (partly because it is more of a fill-in-the-blanks fic and not completely finished) and the parts that make it in continuity to that one won't appear until much, much later in the story.**

**Also, this story ignores the 10-year skip episode, so everything after Bruce gets on a plane and leaves is different. It will, however, share some elements with the 10-year skip episode. I did start writing this before watching that episode, but I might add some elements from that episode into later chapters. So, it might be more of a much longer AUish type Season 6 type story. **

**This story will try and keep to the Gotham format as much as possible. Aside from the MC shifting to Bruce, I won't forget that there are other characters that can be followed as well. Also, I'm going to keep the Elseworld vibe Gotham had going through it; so, certain new characters will appear with a different variation in their background than from their comic counterpart.**

**I'll try and update at least every other week or so; it's going to be a bit harder because I have to plan everything out before I go and jump into the story.**

**Also, I'm not totally in love with the title of this story; so, if you have a suggestion for a better title I would be glad for some imput.**

**Hopefully, you enjoy it! Feedback is very appreciated! Thank you for reading!**


	2. Late Shift

2\. Late Shift

Bright, scruffy red hair, dark, blue eyes, thirteen years old: the young thief sat defiantly in the chair. The hand cuffs had been left on the table unused; the relatively short kid was feisty but wouldn't be a threat to anyone who entered. Gordon stood observing him on the opposite side of the one-way glass. Bullock saddled up beside him and handed him a cup of coffee for the long night ahead.

"So much for going home," He sighed. "We got the crook with the broken nose and questioned the lady. She didn't see anything that we haven't heard before. What makes you think this kid has any sort of information?"

Gordon shrugged, "He had a vantage point to see the whole thing; wouldn't be surprised if he saw something that most of our other battered witnesses didn't."

"Well, you were there. What did you see?" Bullock gestured to him.

Gordon shook his head, "He looks exactly how they described him: he was tall, in some kind of stealth tactical suit with a cape."

"Oh, great, we've got a theatric vigilante on our hands," Bullock rolled his eyes as he took another swig of coffee. "Why can't anyone ever just be normal?"

Gordon continued, ignoring Bullock's comment, "I got there after he took down the mugger. I trained my gun, barely got out a word before he was up in the air, some sort of wire pulled him up. He was on the rooftop in a flash. Never seen anything like it."

"Didn't shoot him?"

"If I did, I could have shot someone's window in; probably even hit the kid."

"Speaking of which, you just picked him up? You know the press is going to have a hay-day if they find out you're interrogating a kid."

"I don't think he was a resident of the building, if you catch my drift. Besides, I read him his rights. I don't think I'll charge him; there was nothing on him anyway. He's not going to get into any trouble. We just need him to tell us what he saw, plain and simple."

"Fair," Bullock nodded. "Going a little soft on him, don't you think? He was at least trespassing and assaulted an officer."

"I don't know, maybe I just want to call it a night," Gordon said something that had been bugging him since the arrest. "He seems familiar."

"How?"

"I don't know; it feels like I've seen him before. It was a long time ago, too. I just can't seem to place him." Gordon shrugged. "It might be nothing."

"Knowing you," Bullock drank from the coffee cup, "it's probably something."

Gordon's phone rang, and he sighed, "Just give me a minute, and we'll talk to him together."

"Gotcha."

Gordon took a step into the hallway and opened the phone, "Hey dad!"

"Hey, Barb," He said with a cheery tone despite the news he was about the give her.

"Dad, when are you coming home? Aunty Lee told me to call, and Junior is asleep already!"

He sighed into the mic, "I'm so sorry; I don't think I'm going to be home before your bedtime. There was a bit of an emergency, and I need to question someone." He paused for a moment; he honestly wanted nothing more than to be home now. "I'll see if I can give the duty to someone else and come home."

There was a pause on the other end, "Dad, you've got to catch the bad guys, right?"

"Yeah, unfortunately," Gordon said with a sigh.

"I don't think it would be good as a police officer to put people in danger just because I came to visit."

"Come on, Barb; you don't need to be so selfless at a young age." She was mature, much too mature for her age. Sometimes it impressed him and other times it worried him. She often picked up on things quickly, and he could almost never hide any secrets from her.

Barb giggled, "No, dad, I think I would rather you catch the bad guy. Do that for me, alright? It'll make for a good bedtime story. Besides, I think Lee wants to watch a rom-com; I know how much you _love _those kinds of movies."

"Yeah, you're right, maybe it's better I'm away," Gordon smiled. "I'll try and be home as soon as possible."

"If you feel bad, you can always make it up in ice-cream," before he could answer she said. "Rocky road, please! Love you dad! Bye!" Then hung up.

Gordon shook his head. He really wanted to be home with her, even if that did mean watching one of Lee's movies, but now, he had business to attend to. He took a quick mouthful of coffee and set it down on a nearby table. He went back into the viewing room and gestured to Harvey. They entered the interrogation room together.

The teenager didn't straighten as they entered. He almost glowered like it was an annoyance that he had to be there. Harvey took point and sat in the seat directly in front of the red head. Gordon stood behind him.

"So," Bullock started. "Better start somewhere. You got a name, kid?"

The red head looked at Bullock then at Gordon. Gordon could tell he was sizing them up. He wanted to see how much trouble he was in before he spoke: a classic street kid tactic.

"Jay," the teenager huffed finally.

"Is that your real name?" Bullock asked, this wasn't the first time some kid had slipped a false name past him. "Come on kid, give me your full name."

"It's what everyone calls me," "Jay" responded with a peeved expression; skipping the demand for his full name, he continued. "So, what is this all about? I can't hang out on fire escapes?"

He was playing dumb. Hopefully they could put him at ease before he clammed up completely.

"We just want to know what you saw concerning the vigilante," Gordon nodded. "We don't care why you were in the position to see it, okay?"

Jay tilted his head, looked sideways at Gordon, and studied him with a cool expression, "Look, it's pretty obvious you need this. The deal needs to be a little more concrete in my favor before I talk."

Gordon shrugged, "We don't even know what you know; could be nothing."

"But, you're not going to know what I know until I get a better deal," Jay returned the shrug with a sly smirk.

"Or we could just call your folks," Bullock nodded.

The kid scoffed with sarcasm, "Yeah, sure, go ahead. Sure they would come racing down. You sure you guys are detectives?"

No parents: Gordon knew it was a possibility from the start. He thought that maybe he would have had parents. His clothes were relatively clean, and it looked like he had taken a shower in the past day or two. If anything, the kid had a place to stay.

Jay shifted his gaze to Gordon as he sat back in the chair, "I'm just saying that I'm going to need a guarantee."

The kid's personality was slowly grating on Harvey's nerves. "Look kid, you better spill or you're going to be sleeping in a cell next to Geilo, and he snores."

Jay rolled his eyes over to Bullock, "Tubbs, I'm talking to the guy in charge, okay?"

"Tubbs?" Bullock's face contorted into a scowl. "Let me tel—"

"How about this," Gordon suggested quickly, cutting off Bullock. "You tell us everything and we don't call Social Services." He was a street kid. Social Services was an inconvenience at best for someone like Jay, but Gordon knew that being let go outweighed any information. "You can head back home, no strings."

The red head studied him cautiously; finally, he smiled, "There we go. Sure, I'll talk."

Gordon nodded then continued, "So, what did you see? Start on how you saw the vigilante."

"The vigilante, no offence but he's a little more than the run-of-the-mill crazy person with a vendetta," Jay finally sat up right as he thought about what he saw. "So, I was minding my own business, hanging out on the fire escape."

It was a blatant lie. The kid knew it wasn't a convincing lie either, but he didn't have to try covering it up. Both detectives let it slide.

"I see this lady getting mugged. The mugger had a gun. I thought if I interfered it might have gotten her killed. Then all of a sudden, I see him on the roof opposite of me." Jay seemed to be more into it as a spark of excitement entered his eyes. "It's like this giant—"

"We know what he looks like," Bullock dismissed him before he got another long-winded description that matched countless others. "What was he doing?"

The red head was undeterred by the interruption, "He was watching the crime, peering down on them like a gargoyle. I was quiet; I didn't want to let him know I saw him. Then, he jumped and glided down."

"What?" Gordon asked in confusion.

Jay reiterated a little annoyed, "He glided down."

"Glided? Like how?"

"I don't know. The cape took care of that part. He just spread it out and it broke his fall," He tried to illustrate by holding his arms out like Dracula. "Kind of like," the kid shrugged as he thought about the dark material spreading out in a wing-like fashion, "a bat, I guess."

"You expect us to believe this?" Bullock scoffed. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Jay didn't skip a beat as he put a hand to his chin and thought, "Well on a scale from one to ten—"

Bullock was going to say something when Gordon cut in again, "So, he glided down using his cape. Then what happened?"

"Then he beat the mugger senseless. Then I saw you, and he used some sort of line to escape."

"Line?" Gordon hoped the kid could elaborate more on the escape than he could.

"An escape rope of some kind, like. . ." the kid thought about the word, "A grappling hook! Yeah! A grappling hook, but a super powerful, automated one! I heard it connect to the roof; it pulled him up in a second. He flew by me like a rocket and then disappeared over the rooftop. I didn't see anything after that."

"That's it?"

"Yeah," Jay retreated from his excitement back into caution.

"He didn't say anything?"

"Silent as death," Jay shook his head. "That's all I saw, I swear."

Bullock looked back at Gordon and he nodded.

"So, this means I can go?" The teen leaned forward.

"Sure," Gordon nodded; the kid took the next second to stand and head towards the door. "Just don't hang out on fire escapes and turn yourself into police custody when they ask."

_Fat chance_, the red head thought as Gordon opened the interrogation room door. The detectives just watched him as he left.

"Oh!" Jay stopped before he stepped out the door. "There's one thing I forgot to tell you."

"What?" Gordon asked as the kid took a moment to think.

"You may have not noticed but," he touched his upper lip and scrunched up his face into a concerned expression. "I think you've got a caterpillar, right there."

Bullock rolled his eyes, "Scram kid before I get creative with a charge!"

"Gentlemen," Jay touched two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute goodbye, flashed a smile, and slipped out the door.

"Losing your temper, Bullock," Gordon smirked. "What are you a rookie?"

"It's ten o'clock, I should be watching TV in my slippers. Yeah, I'm a little short tonight," Bullock grumbled as he stood, and they exited the interrogation room. "I'm too worn-out to deal with snots like him. Did we even get anything significant?"

"Come on, Harvey," Gordon said taking steps towards his office. "Like the kid said, this guy is a little more than just the run-of-the-mill crazy person. A tactical battle suit, an advanced grappling hook, a cape that gives gliding abilities, this guy was trained; possibly even military. He's got access to technology that we haven't seen before. If so, another thing is for sure; he's got one hell of a banking account."

"So, a rich, militarily trained, super-technician," Bullock huffed. "That'll be easy to pin down."

* * *

Unsurprisingly after a night of vigilante justice, there were stitches to be made. Alfred pulled out the first aid kit and went to work. There was quiet for the first few minutes as Bruce read the newspaper. The particular cut was not from a knife, but instead a stray piece of window glass that had found a niche in the armor where the neck lining met the cowl—another thing to improve. Apparently, bursting through windows to take down unsuspecting gang members was dangerous. Alfred had joked that the windows were going to do him in before any bullet did. Bruce was relatively quiet and contemplative as he sat with his shirt off while the butler worked. He didn't even wince as the needle went through his skin, but that wasn't what worried the butler. There were scars; scars Alfred had never seen before. They were old scars, but still, they disconcerted the butler every time he saw them. They spoke of a history that he hadn't been a part of; they symbolized pain. He couldn't help but wince at the sight of the scar tissue. It had less to do with the imagined gore and more to do with the fact that it was on the young man he had raised, but he wasn't that young man anymore. He was something else.

If Alfred was being honest with himself, sometimes it was like a completely different person came back. His return had come without warning and at a bit of a shock. One moment, Alfred was having a nice afternoon tea break in the new Wayne Manor garden; the next moment, he spotted an unexpected guest walking down the patio towards him. The joy he had felt at seeing the young man finally return was overwhelming; a feeling that cooled into immense concern after a few hours of talking to him.

Bruce had seen things, had experiences that changed him. One year he was learning from different martial arts masters in Tibet, the next he was tracking down cartels in South America, the next six months were spent in the Russian underworld. The young man was more distant when he spoke to Alfred, less emotional, cool. Even with everything he had told the butler, Bruce still kept things to himself. In a way, it annoyed Alfred. He'd known the young master since the day he was born; he didn't like this new distance between them. It made a pit in the bottom of his stomach, a dread filled pit that didn't go away as they talked.

Then, he told Alfred his plan.

Alfred had agreed to it immediately because he believed in Bruce. If he wanted to fight crime like they did back in the day, Alfred was going to help. Lucius was immediately on board as well; he built the gadgets and armor so quickly, Alfred questioned if Bruce had preordered everything. According to Lucius, the passion came from a break in the mundane track of his regular job. Oh, the trials of being a Wayne Enterprises' board member. It wasn't like this crusade wasn't planned, the bunker built in the caverns below the new Wayne Manor were a testament to Alfred's assumption that this was the end goal.

The work was slow going. Alfred was glad that it was deliberately cautious. The crusade against crime needed to start small, equipment needed to be tested, and a sort of legend needed to be spread. Therefore, mostly small robberies, muggings, and other crimes would be impeded. It gave Bruce a feel for the Gotham underworld without drawing attention to himself. In the daytime, he'd scout out areas and targets and gain intel on the local gangs. At night, he'd hit them hard. There had been mistakes and mishaps. Certain parts of the suit proved to be less than bullet proof or something would malfunction like the communicator did that night. It was best to fix the imperfections before things got too dangerous.

"Hmm," Bruce finally made a sound as his eyes scanned the newspaper.

"Something catch your eye?" Alfred grabbed at the first sign of conversation. He finished the stitch and focused on putting away the kit.

"Wayne Tower re-opens at the end of the week," Bruce said still deep in thought.

"Yes, indeed it does," the butler nodded. "Will you be attending the ceremony?"

Bruce looked at Alfred with a look that told the butler he should know better.

"There will be caviar, sir," Alfred said like it was a deciding factor, "pretty women, familiar faces, the perfect opportunity for you to—"

"I'm not going, Alfred," Bruce said simply.

"Right, no luxury for the hardened vigilante," Alfred said with sarcasm.

"No above ground activity. That's the luxury I cannot allow myself to afford."

Right, Bruce Wayne hadn't been seen for about a decade. As far as the world knew, he was still traveling abroad for personal reasons. The only people aware of his return were Alfred and Lucius. That was understandable for the time being; Bruce originally reasoned that if both Bruce Wayne and a vigilante showed up at the same time, there would be questions. However, after several months of activity, Alfred felt like it was time for him to make his official return. Bruce disagreed. There was to be no activity at all above ground outside of his vigilante persona. He didn't even go upstairs for breakfast. Since Bruce was technically off God-knows-where, it would be strange if someone spotted the billionaire wandering around the grounds—or at least that was how Bruce explained it. So, he was stuck in the underground tinkering away and formulating his next hit. However, as much a Bruce portrayed his reclusiveness as smart or tactical, Alfred knew it was more personal. Some part of him reveled in anonymity and the lack of social responsibility. Alfred didn't know why; he didn't want to prod him too hard too quickly but knew he needed an answer soon. He might as well start nudging the answer out of him now.

"A luxury you cannot or _will_ not allow yourself to afford?" Alfred said as he finished packing away the kit.

Bruce sighed, lowered the paper, and came to a stand, "A double life wouldn't work. I need to focus on what is important." Bruce nodded to himself, "Bruce Wayne isn't needed for Gotham to be fixed; bringing him back is an unnecessary complication. He can be lost, forgotten. I'm at peace with that, Alfred."

Alfred was stunned for a moment. He honestly couldn't fathom Bruce's inability to recognize his own worth in his friend's lives, "Maybe Gotham doesn't need Bruce Wayne, but the people around him do. I promise you he wasn't forgotten." He took a long pause, almost taking in the absurdity that Bruce disassociated himself with his previous life in a way that made him refer to it in the third person. "I miss him and so do a lot of other people."

Bruce simply turned away and went over to the computer. They hadn't had an argument since he had returned. Alfred desperately wanted one as well; it was as if Bruce was purposefully avoiding all conflict with him. Bruce simply wanted to ignore the matter at hand and continue like it wasn't an issue. Alfred decided to leave it for the moment as Bruce rubbed sleep from his eyes. Arguing while sleep deprived would lead to a fracture between them before it would yield a change.

"Just," Alfred said as he approached the elevator, "promise you'll sleep on it."

He was silent for a moment then nodded, "Goodnight Alfred."

* * *

Jay used his freedom to return to the scene of the crime. The cops were gone by now. There was nothing to protect; he doubted if there was any substantial evidence to show that the vigilante had even been there. Considering the quality of the police force in the interrogation room, it would probably take months to even find the guy. Right now, he wasn't worried about the vigilante; he just needed to find his bag.

He went to the place where he had tossed it off of the top of the building; he growled when he saw it. The bag was limp, empty. The only evidence it had ever contained something was the sticky nature of the cloth that had been soaked by exploded soda cans. The busted soda cans were still in there, but everything else was gone.

"Couldn't even leave me my crowbar?" Jay growled annoyed; his lockpick was also gone. Steal a thief's score—sure—steal his tools—now you're just robbing him of future opportunities. He'd have to steal one from a junkyard or a construction site again; the lockpick would be even harder to pocket as his go-to hardware store was aware of his shoplifting habits.

Jay decided to head back home. Home was in the Narrows, a bit of a walk from where he was but not too far. As he made his way back, he couldn't help but look up towards the sky as if hoping to see the caped vigilante again. Alas, there was no looming shadow. He shrugged it off and continued home: an apartment building.

Jay climbed up the stairwell to the apartment building. It was old, mostly abandoned, left unrestored in the wake of No Man's Land, and held only a few remaining occasional residents. He made his way to the top floor, stepping over the legs of someone who had passed out on the stairwell. Apartment 310: he didn't own it, but then again, no one really did. It was vacant. The first time he entered, he had climbed in through the window—no fire escape to help him there, just old-fashioned finger strength and shimming across the wall until he reached the window. After discovering the fridge empty, a calendar that didn't date past last May, and most of the rest of the apartment devoid of everything but plastic covered furniture, Jay decided to settle in. There were nice decorations and knickknacks, but most of them were cat themed. Jay's main theory was that the apartment used to belong to a crazy cat lady who had just up and died without a will. He assumed crazy, because the quality of the lock was practically unpickable—spurring on his dangerous climb up the outside of the building. Whoever it was, they were paranoid about being broken into. He was glad it had that lock. It meant he had the apartment all to himself.

When Jay arrived at the door, he pulled out his key, one he had fashioned to avoid having to take the climb again. He paused at the door. A piece of paper had been jammed into the crux of the door. He pulled it out; a large A, an Anarchy symbol, was plastered on the piece of paper along with the slogan: "The People unite! The old Sionis Warehouse, Friday at 6:30!"

He balled it up and tossed it over the stairs behind him. He entered the apartment, slung the empty bag onto the coat rack, and turned on the light. He had always thought it was a little strange that the place had power—he never paid a bill in his life—but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He made his way over to the fridge and opened it up; the food would last him another week, but it was all junk. Even he knew he couldn't live off of stale potato chips and water forever. He needed some real food, and often he couldn't afford it. The fences always took advantage of the new blood. Jay had gotten into a fist fight or two with some of them over their prices—it never worked out in his favor. So, he worked for slave wages at best; and his last big score had been a month ago. He always took his time with his targets, made sure there wasn't any conflict; it took longer than most. He wanted to be smart; but that didn't always work out for him. It was that or he could start doing jobs for the gangs; he'd heard horror stories about the kids who started doing that. He lived by a sort of motto: take only what you need to sell, do only what you need to survive. If he got into the gangs, he knew he'd never get out. Then he'd be just another dumb criminal. If worse came to worse, he could always sell some of the weird cat paraphernalia, but it would probably only get him ten bucks.

Jay took a glass of almost sour milk and some jerky into the living room. He never really bothered to clean, there were a few piles of trash that had accumulated over time. He flopped down on the couch. The TV was off; it had broken about a week ago and he hadn't had time to find the parts to fix it or the chance to steal a TV. For now, his only entertainment was the morning paper. He picked up the newspaper off of the coffee table. He flipped through the pages absentmindedly until he stumbled upon a picture. It was a rough sketch of the vigilante—no it wasn't even a sketch more like a concept: a dark caped individual with an exposed chin. It was an ad for information on the person in question.

Jay snorted, it didn't even come close to what it was like seeing the guy in real life. There was this awe-inspiring fearful presence that followed him. The experience gave him a sort of euphoria; he'd never felt someone so powerful before. The way he effortlessly took down the mugger and how he seemed to be doing it every night, inspired the red head. If he had half the abilities that vigilante showed, things would be different in his life. The fences wouldn't be pushing him around, that was for sure. Yet, he had nothing to remember him by; there was nothing to prove he had ever even encountered the dark, foreboding figure. Well, maybe he could make one. He retrieved some scissors and cut the picture out of the newspaper. He took it and taped it to the wall. It was like a poster; the first he had ever owned. He felt a surge of pride go through him as he admired it on the wall. The pride was quickly overshadowed by a cautious, almost embarrassed feeling.

"Don't become an obsessed weirdo," He pleaded with himself.

* * *

**Hopefully, you like it and I'm doing everyone in character; I'm still focusing on polishing the story and getting it moving. Forgive me if there are typos and what not, I proofread this at 2am.**

**Thank you so much for following and reading! It really helps motivate me to write!**


	3. Rich and Poor

3\. Rich and Poor

Alfred thought it would have been best to inform Bruce before he left for the evening. Normally, Alfred's nights were spent on the computer providing extra support for the vigilante, but he knew he had to attend the event if only to make a point. The elevator opened, and he entered the cave. He often would muse that the cave resembled something like a bachelor pad. It was minimalist in comfort, allowing for a small cot to sleep on, a small table, and a shower; there were also places where Bruce had piled things like clothing, which Alfred would clean every so often. The rest of it was completely dedicated to the work space. Computers, a forensic lab, a work bench for tinkering, a training pad, and places for equipment all took up the majority of the space in the cave. Alfred ducked for a moment as a screech whizzed by his head. Bruce's roommates, the bats, loud, obnoxious, and dirty as they were, took up a considerable amount of space on the roof of the cave as well. Yes, exactly like a bachelor pad.

When he found the young billionaire asleep on the desk, Alfred sighed. It was not the first time he had found him like that; he often worked to exhaustion, yet another reason Alfred wished he would get a social life. If he had people to talk to and places to be, he would have to spend time taking care of himself. He tapped the young man on the shoulder. Bruce snapped up suddenly but stilled when he saw Alfred.

"Real shame the Persian silk sheets have to go to waste," Alfred said as Bruce rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb. "Well, at least I've got several to spare."

Bruce knew what he was getting at, "The beds are too soft. I wouldn't sleep." He looked Alfred up and down. "A little overdressed, aren't you?"

Alfred pulled at the silk suit, "Just thought I'd let you know that I will be gone for a few hours; best to keep your feet on the ground until I get back."

"Hot date?" Bruce joked—one of the very rare occurrences of a joke.

"Well, Wayne Tower is opening today," Alfred straightened his suit. "I thought there ought to be someone to represent the missing Wayne at the gala."

"Wayne Tower opens today?" Bruce was taken aback for a moment. While living underground, time seemed to stand still, especially when he spent a few days recovering. "Seems like you only told me yesterday."

"Yes, well, I'll be out; I should be back in a few hours," Alfred decided to slide in a bit of their previous conversation. "That is, unless you wish to join me."

Bruce shook his head, "No, carry on."

Alfred turned to leave, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind caused him to turn around, "When do you think you'll be making your public appearance: in a week, a month, a ye—"

"Not in the foreseeable future," Bruce said quickly.

"Oh, I see, any specific goal you wish to achieve before you finally reveal yourself?" He knew he had asked the question before; he felt like he needed to reiterate it.

"When it's safe, when there is no more need to go out in a mask and fight crime," Bruce said, "That's when." He paused for a moment, then continued as if anticipating a rebuttal. "Gordon's not dumb. Bruce Wayne is known by the GCPD to be a bit of the heroic type with a penchant for chasing down suspects. Take my personality profile, cross reference that with the man who raised me—Alfred Pennyworth ex-British special forces—and add in the fact that the vigilante uses gadgets that are considerably expensive: you'd have a case or at the very least a suspicion. If I came back now with the people who know me, it wouldn't take long to finger me as a suspect."

"They'd have to prove that you were in town before the vigilante started doling out justice," Alfred assured. "There are plenty of other suspects before they start looking into you. It would give you a lot of time to pursue justice and throw them off the scent. Besides, billionaires are a strange mysterious bunch; they're likely to have other theories before they decide to put a face to the cowl."

"It's not only that," Bruce excused, "leading a double life would be time consuming and complicated. What would I do if an emergency came up? Excusing myself from every possible outing would be suspicious on its own. It's much more efficient to stay here."

"You might not see the benefits in running a double life, but I assure you that it would be much better than the life you lead now."

Bruce sighed, "Enlighten me."

"Well, for one," Alfred shrugged a little, "you can sleep in your own bloody bed, engage in much needed hobbies, get some vitamin D, have at least a few more people to rub up against in your daily life. You can have a normal life or at least half of one, which is better than what you have now."

"Alfred," Bruce sighed. "I don't need a normal life; I have never had one, especially in the last ten years. I am completely content to do my work without the extra strain of keeping up appearances."

Alfred bit back from saying some of his thoughts. Bruce hid it from him well, but, Alfred could see part of the problem. It wasn't that Bruce didn't think he could maintain a normal life; it was that he didn't believe he deserved one. Whatever guilt had been building up over the years had finally bore in some self-destructive thoughts.

"I don't think that is the healthiest way to go about this," Alfred paused for a moment, then went on. "We both have personally observed someone who experienced the psychological effects of long-term isolation underground," Alfred knew what he was saying.

Bruce grew silent for a moment; Alfred could tell that he had struck a nerve. Good: he was tired of tiptoeing around the subject.

"I am in perfect mental condition," Bruce insisted. "I test myself regularly; you know this. I know how to keep myself completely healthy."

"I'm saying that your only constant human contact cannot be your fist in someone's jaw."

"That's why I have you."

"I'm not enough," Alfred snapped suddenly.

There was silence. Alfred softened again.

"Master B, you used to have friends: a few friends, but good ones. You used to have Gordon, Bullock, and Ms. Ky—"

"And look what happened," Bruce stood suddenly. "I always got in over my head and everyone else paid for my mistakes. Selina was paralyzed, Ra's burned down the city, and Gordon and Lee almost got murdered because of me, because some psychopaths latched onto whatever darkness they saw in me. I can't protect the people around me, and I can't lose them. People die when I get involved; it's best that they be at arm's length, far away from whatever crazies Bruce Wayne might bring out. Behind a mask, there is no one, there is no one to hurt, there is nothing but a vigilante. By doing this, the people I care about don't get hurt." Bruce sighed. "Alfred, I'm trying to do what is right; I'm trying to be who I'm meant to be, who you raised me to be."

"I didn't raise a vigilante; I raised Bruce Wayne," Alfred said calmly; Bruce maintained a stoic expression. "I understand your reasoning, probably more than anyone, but I just want you to come home."

Alfred took his leave and headed back to the elevator. Bruce sat back in his chair and rested his chin in his hand deep in thought. Alfred took one last look, sighed, and allowed the elevator doors to close.

* * *

The only reason that Jay was outside the Sionis Warehouse was because he was bored. There was nothing to do, he hadn't found a mark, he had found the parts to repair the TV but didn't feel like fixing it at the moment, and he needed something to keep him occupied. He figured going to see what the fuss was about; who ever posted the pamphlets was definitely desperate. The pamphlet he had thrown away a couple of days ago had multiplied. He found more stapled to posts on the street and on other people's doors. So, partially out of curiosity and partially out of boredom, the teen slipped through the metal door with a sign pointing to the rally.

At the rally, there was a small stage in the middle of the abandoned warehouse surrounded by about forty people. They were the average Narrow inhabitance, people with wild haircuts and a bad taste in punk clothing. He thought there would have been more due to the sheer volume of pamphlets printed, but, then again, you would have to be crazy to just show up in the Narrows at an advertised location. Jay wondered what that said about himself and the people around him.

Suddenly the lights went off. The crowd murmured in the darkness, and Jay became jostled by the disoriented people around him. He unfortunately became acquainted with his neighbor's sweaty arm in the darkness. The lights came back on and there was suddenly a figure on the stage. He was tall, had a red jacket on with a hood, and wore a white, featureless mask.

"How long have you waited for someone to save you?" The masked man asked; he talked with enough volume and clarity to be heard without a microphone. "How long has the government promised you things that it never delivered? How long have you been strung along by carrots, assured that the goal was in your reach all along only to have your hand slapped away when you grabbed at it? I ask you, why do we keep playing the games, following the trails that have been laid out in front of us when they only lead to stupidity, submission, and self-destruction? I'll tell you why, the corporate government doesn't want you to achieve anything." The man in the expressionless mask seemed animated and passionate as he talked. "Well, I say enough! I say that we are not going to be cogs in the corporate machine! I am Anarky, and I will lead the revolution to a new future for Gotham, one where the gangs and the stupidity of the government don't exist."

Jay rolled his eyes, yet another crazy person with another pitch to "save" the people. He wondered how many in the room would fall for it. Looking around, many people seemed to be encapsulated by the speaker's words. Some even cheered him on. Jay couldn't blame them. He hated the gangs and the incompetent local government as much as anyone, but whatever this guy was going to propose wasn't the answer. He felt that in his gut.

"Think about it," Anarky tapped his temple. "Everything we eat, drink, watch, consume, see in our daily lives is controlled by the very thing that we think we are not. We are told what to believe and who are heroes should be. Often, they are not the heroes we deserve. We build monuments to riches and bestow honors on broken men like Jim Gordon instead of making them accountable for their infinite mistakes. Protect and Serve? Do you remember the last time a government officer actually helped anyone in the Narrows?"

The rhetorical question wasn't left in silence. Many people let out their discontent with the GCPD; again, Jay couldn't blame them. The police were as crooked as they came.

"The police and the bureaucrats at the GCPD only work to line their pockets with dirty, gang money. They have long neglected their civic duty to help the People."

Jay had to admit; the guy did have a way of rallying up the crowd as he seemed to capture them in a second. He even found himself liking the guy's charisma, or maybe it was just the jacket.

"The people of Gotham deserve more than the slop the corrupt pigs of bureaucracy have to offer," He seemed to calm and lowered his voice and spoke sincerely to bring the crowd close. "We used to be a community; one that pulled together to fight through the darkness, one that made common men and women the proprietors of their own fate. There was a time where we were simply an altruistic, virtuous society where the People band together and helped one another without question. This time was not long ago, and it is gone thanks to the gears of bureaucracy and the oppression of the military!" A boo erupted from the crowd, "I say we return to a better time, a time when there were no governments, no banks, no gods, no pigs holding us down: an era of true human freedom. I say, we return to the era of No Man's Land!"

A shock ran through Jay. No man's land: the time when gangs ran the city, the time when death was a daily occurrence, when maniacs carved out the land for their own stupid gain. Anger boiled up in him. His fist clenched. He wasn't going to let that happen again. He gritted his teeth and impulsively booed through the scattered cheers.

"When we return to that time," Anarky didn't seem to notice if there were dissenters in the crowd. "When the government shackles fall away, we will be brought together in a grand experiment to build a better world for us. That's why we need the will of the People behind us. That way, we can establish our new order, one in which we decide our own fate, not our corporate masters!"

A cheer rose up from the crowd; the crowd's energy seemed to scrape against every nerve that Jay had. How could they want No Man's Land back? He needed to stop it. He knew that he couldn't let it happen again. He didn't know where the impulse came from, but he scooped down and grabbed a jagged rock off the concrete floor. In a second, his arm snapped forward hurling the rock towards the masked figure.

There was a _thunk_ as the rock struck hard plastic. The rock hit right above Anarky's left eye and the masked man reeled back. Jay felt a slight bit of a thrill as he saw the would-be-revolutionary pull back and cover his mask. However, Jay immediately came to regret his action as he was suddenly seized by the crowd. The rage he felt translated to his moves as he swung violently at the crowd. He kicked someone in the shin and elbowed another in the mouth. He made sure that they couldn't get a hand on him.

"Hold it! Don't hurt him!" The crowd backed away from Jay as the voice emanated from the stage. Anarky was standing tall on the stage; the rock only cracked part of the plastic. He waved off the angry crowd as he continued, "We cannot blame the children for the sins of the elite. His conditioning is strong, but let's see if we can break him from it." He gestured to Jay. "Come on, I am not who I fight against. Speak your mind."

Jay took a few weary breaths. The people around him looked at him with baited breath and angered scowls. The stupid mask stared back blankly. Jay huffed in anger.

"You're a freakin' lunatic!" Well, Jay was never one to skirt around his actual thoughts.

Anarky chuckled like Jay was an unwitting child. "Many revolutionaries have been called lunatics; yet we see them as heroes now."

"Most of them didn't use the words of Jerome Valeska," Jay sneered. "'Cog in a machine' the talk of chaos and tearing down the established government: I've heard those words before. I've seen the tapes his goons pass around."

The tapes were something of common knowledge in the Narrows. Some acolytes of Jerome, however few they might be, made copy after copy of tapes regarding the psycho; they also took time distributing them or shoving them into PO boxes. It wasn't rare to find a closet or trash can full of discarded tapes. In a way, the words of the psychopath were ingrained into every Narrows kid who was curious enough to slip one into a VCR.

"You're just another mouthpiece for that psychopath," He hoped something he said would knock some sense into the potential acolytes. "You're just lusting for chaos."

"Even fractured minds recognize that the sky is blue," Anarky said simply dismissing the argument. "And as for chaos, I much prefer that to the shackles of the government—wouldn't you? The chaos is temporary; then, the people will come together in community—like we did in times of old. No corruption, no leaders, no rich, no poor, just the People: complete equality."

Jay mocked, "You call for equality, yet you stand above us."

Anarky took a step forward and jumped off of the stage; he walked forward towards Jay. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

"A theatrical method, that is all."

"And the mask?" The guy's self-righteous attitude was grating on Jay's nerves. "Afraid to show us who you really are?"

"A symbol," he said as he came closer. "A figurative gesture: I am not myself but the will of the people. My face is inconsequential in the wake of my message."

Jay's teeth ground together as he continued, "What about the people who died during that time; you're just going to let others die like they did?"

"They were an acceptable loss for true freedom. Their sacrifice—"

"I don't see my parents as an acceptable loss!" Jay's face was a dark red as he yelled it.

Anarky was surprisingly silenced by the sudden outburst. Jay's eyes burned so bright with anger that he could have cut a hole into his stupid mask. The white mask stared back emotionlessly, but Jay could tell the man underneath was thinking.

"I see," he finally spoke. "This is much more personal for you." To Jay's surprise, he actually sounded somewhat emotional and empathetic, possibly even on the edge of tears. "Their loss. . . I can't imagine." He crouched somewhat and put a gloved hand on Jay's shoulder. Jay could see through the eye holes of the mask; there was something like emotion in them—he was human under the costume. Jay jerked away. The masked man sighed and whispered. "They will not be forgotten. They will be remembered as martyrs for the greater freedom. They will be immortalized in the people's consciousness for the rest of time."

He spoke with such passion that it was hard to think it was a rehearsed line. It was at this moment that Jay realized it wasn't an act. As much as the guy seemed like another pontificating self-proclaimed savior, it was even more disturbing that the guy seemed to actually believe it. Gotham really had a way of attracting the loons.

"They would be disgusted to be your martyr," Jay growled.

There was another pause. Finally, he extended his hand, ruffled the young teen's red hair, and stood from his crouch. "You'll learn." Then he turned his back.

Jay felt unbridled rage burn up in him. As Anarky turned around, Jay pulled his foot up to kick him. The next thing he knew, his foot on the ground gave way and his face hit the concrete. His kicking leg was still in the air behind his back, now held by the gloved hand of Anarky.

"You get that one, kid," Anarky said as he let go of Jay's leg. Jay pulled away and scrambled to his feet. "Next time, I won't be nice."

Jay ran. He didn't know why, but he knew he had to leave. He pushed through the crowd towards the exit. He burst through the metal door and kept running. He sprinted a few blocks away until he came to an alley way. He only stopped when his lungs burned for air, and he couldn't move his feet anymore. His face felt flushed with embarrassment, anger, and another bitter emotion that he couldn't describe. He felt the need to do something.

A nearby trash can became his victim as he kicked and toppled it. Then he kicked it again and again, denting it inward. He kicked it until his foot swelled with pain from hitting the metal object. Again, he stopped, out of breath, tired. He put his hands on his knees panting; pressure built up in his chest. He growled, dismissed the emotion, shoved his hands into his pockets, and headed for home.

* * *

Despite Bruce's absence, Alfred was intent on being a gracious host. He had already rubbed shoulders with Gotham's upper echelon and many members of the board. There were questions about the missing Wayne sure, but Alfred usually gave the most mundane answers he could. His more pleasant meetings were with Barbara Kean, despite her old reputation as the leader of the Sirens, and Lee Tompkins, who was surprisingly without the commissioner—something about a nasty illness.

Eventually, the climax of the evening came, and it was time for him to give a speech. He took to the small stage in the blinding spotlight and stood at the podium. The faces of the Gotham highlife beamed back.

"I would like to thank you for coming here tonight and for your unwavering support in restoring this historic building."

Alfred's words rang hollow in his mind despite the pleased looks on everyone's face. He couldn't shake the feeling that it should have been Bruce in his place. After all the years of construction, it should have been a monument to the triumphant return of the Wayne family. He held back a sigh and continued talking as he missed the small murmur that arose from a figure moving through the middle of the crowd. He continued unceremoniously.

"I apologize for not being Mr. Wayne standing before you. I wish more than anyone that he co—" Alfred stopped quickly as he noticed the figure quickly approaching the stage. A look of shock crossed his face. "Oh, my Lord."

* * *

Gordon knew it was probably rude to skip the gala, but there wasn't much he was missing. Nicely dressed socialites and politicians gathered in a single place to celebrate the construction of a building: it wasn't his scene. He much preferred the comfort of his home to a stuffy suit. This was something Barbara Kean adored; so, Gordon was glad to spend time with his daughter while Kean enjoyed herself. Lee went also in his stead; she invented the story of a stomach virus much to Gordon's relief. This left his evening open to simply rest, the first time he had rested in a while.

Well, rest as much as he could with two kids running around. Barb had immediately broken out the ice cream and board games to celebrate "dad night." James Gordon Junior—if Gordon hadn't been unfortunately absent at his birth he wouldn't have allowed that name to fly—was his six-year-old son who looked more like his mother, Lee, than his father; he took pride in winning several of the board game matches, which he always seemed to win despite his age. Eventually, they ran out of steam and crashed into sleep. As Barb lay dosing on his shoulder and Junior was asleep curled up on the armchair, Gordon flipped through the channels on the TV. Eventually, he landed on golf. He sighed. Really, he was at the age where watching golf was entertainment. He felt the need for something, anything, to come up at the moment to take his attention off of the screen.

As if an answer to his plea, he got a call on his cell phone. He checked the caller ID: Lee.

He picked up the phone and whispered into the mic, "Hey, Lee, getting enough of the Gotham night life?"

"Jim," She said quickly and with a hint of urgency. "Turn on Channel Seven."

Gordon quickly changed the channel and sat forward as the footage of the gala played out. The camera swiveled violently as it tracked someone from the crowd. Gordon squinted for a moment, following the blurry unfocused image as they approached the stage. Gordon's eyes widened as the camera focused and the man took the stage. Alfred, who had previously been at the podium, walked over to the man, hugged him, and pointed him to the podium.

"Hey, who's that?" Barb, who had been shaken awake by his sudden movement, asked as she rubbed her eyes.

Gordon unintentionally ignored her as his eyes were glued to the screen.

"What," Bruce Wayne smiled as he took to the podium, "you thought I wouldn't show up to reveal my own tower?"

* * *

The TV flickered in the low light of the Star City Luxury Hotel room. The sole occupant sat sideways in a plush arm chair and allowed her feet to dangle off the side. It had been a long day's work; taking a rest in the hotel in nothing but a plush robe was a well-deserved indulgence. Her prize, an emerald necklace, rested on her neck. The Queen family wouldn't be missing it anytime soon.

The 11 O'clock news was playing out in the background as she admired the necklace. This wasn't one she was going to pawn off on the black market. This one was a keeper. The only thing that tore her eye off of her prize was a quick flash of a familiar face on the TV. She found herself sitting up in the chair and leaning forward causing her curly hair to temporarily cross her face. She reached over to the remote and turned up the volume. Despite the reporter talking, she barely heard anything as her mind swirled with thoughts.

Her lips thinned into a line as she watched the picture of the billionaire flash onto the screen. All these years, not a word was said to her, then suddenly he had to come back with a sudden magic reappearing act: typical.

A frown crossed her face, "You've got to be kidding me."

* * *

The man in the red jacket growled as he saw the news covering the illustrious billionaire's sudden return. He sat forward in his chair as the new recruits behind him gathered the needed supplies for their next action. He wasn't entirely sure what that action would be, but, if need be, he had the equipment to carry out whatever he needed.

"The sycophantic pigs rejoice as one of their own returns from a luxury vacation," Anarky sneered to himself.

The newscaster, went on, "In a shocking twist, the 'Prince of Gotham,' Bruce Wayne, made a surprising appearance at the Wayne Tower Gala. Wayne has announced that there will be an event of his own held at the newly rebuilt Wayne Manor in the wake of his return."

Through his seething, Anarky had a spark of inspiration; Wayne Manor: that was how he was going to start off the revolution. Anarky held his gloved hand out into a finger gun and pointed it at the billionaire on the screen.

"Watch out 'Prince of Gotham'," he lowered his thumb.

* * *

In the forgotten corner of the recreational center of Arkham Asylum, a radio was playing a soft tune. It was calming, soothing, and was played for a very special patient. The general consensus was that activity was good for his mind, maybe even healing. Even if he was unable to output information, certainly, he could receive it. This was not that anyone wanted this particular patient to be healed—it would be best if he stayed in his state forever—but the asylum had to ensure that all patients were treated with respect and courtesy under the recent administration.

Suddenly, the news started to play. This was less appealing and usually the nurse would turn off the radio set when it started to play the news, but right now they were busy with another patient. So, the news played unhindered as it passed through the room almost completely unnoticed.

"In other news, local celebrity Bruce Wayne has made a shocking appearance at the opening Wayne Tower Gala. The eccentric billionaire has been absent from Gotham since the No-Man's Land period. Wayne apparently arrived back in Gotham earlier today, and he pledged to 'stick around' and 'help the people of Gotham who are most in need.'"

There was a cut and suddenly the voice of Bruce Wayne came through the speaker, "I want to help rebuild Gotham. After all these years away, I promise I'm not going anywhere."

For the first time in nearly a decade, the patient broke character with the twitch of a smile.

* * *

**Well, hopefully you like it. The next one should be out around next weekend (unless something silly comes up in my everyday life like it usually does when I set deadlines). **

**Thank you for all your support, and thank you for reading!**


	4. Homecoming

4\. Homecoming

Alfred watched as the young billionaire tried on the suit he had specially ordered for the event, "I am glad that you decided to come out of the shadows, Master B, but are you sure that inviting everyone to the manor is truly safe?"

"Having second thoughts?" Bruce asked with a joking chide as he straightened his bow tie.

"Wonder if someone stumbles upon the triggering mechanism to the cave?" Alfred shrugged.

"The mechanism is safely out of reach," Bruce assured.

"Playing it rather close to the chest, aren't we?"

"That's the only way to play the game." Bruce shrugged. "If I came back only to stay a quiet recluse, there would be questions. So, I need to open up, maybe even a bit too much. Best be a personality if anything."

"And what charming personality would that be?" Alfred asked like he was selecting the color of his clothing. "I certainly hope it isn't the brat persona."

"I was thinking less brat more clueless billionaire," Bruce said with a shrug. "Playing dumb might lead to an advantage."

"Ah yes, but, try not to alienate your closest allies," Alfred nodded. "It would be best if you could sprinkle in a bit of positive traits as well: a little of the old Bruce." Alfred paused for a moment. "Since you are now back, why don't you let Gordon into our circle of trust? It wouldn't hurt to have the commissioner know what you are doing, especially since he has been such an ally to us in the past."

Predictably, Bruce dismissed it, "The circle is as wide as necessary. I only need you and Lucius to operate. I don't necessarily need Gordon; he might end up being a bit of an obstacle. After years of relative peace, shaking things up might make him nervous. He could make the decision to arrest me on a dime if he disagreed with my methods. Gordon would be dangerous if he was at odds with me and knew that I was the vigilante."

"Fair enough," Alfred nodded. "Anyway, I should get back to organizing the staff. There is a last-minute addition, an ice sculpture of a swan that needs to be treated with care." Alfred paused. "I've come to understand that you don't do things simply for the fun of it anymore; there is always an ulterior motive. So, what is the main goal of the night?"

Bruce turned around and exited the room while saying, "Making sure that Bruce Wayne can never be thought of as a vigilante."

* * *

Gordon, despite the nice suit and the extra touch of a handkerchief from Lee, felt underdressed. The highlife of Gotham always made him feel a little overwhelmed when it came to style. If he were interrogating them or was speaking to them on police business, then there wouldn't be any intimidation factor. Now, he just felt like a fish out of water. He was currently herded to the side of the large ballroom. The ballroom was massive and held the two hundred guests with ease on both the ground floor and the second-floor balcony that ran across the interior wall. The room was made to feel even bigger as glass windows constructed the wall to the outside. There was a stage placed in the corner of the venue allowing for speakers when ready and a news camera too; apparently, everyone wanted to see the return of the Wayne heir. When Gordon had visited before, these rooms had been closed off, unused. He had never fully grasped the enormity of the manor until that moment. It was rather luxurious too with the decorations and heavy security; there was even a ice sculpture in the center of the room.

Of course, the man of the hour himself was standing in the middle of the crowd and greeting as many people as he could. There were several familiar faces among the guests. Gordon caught sight of Alfred manning almost every station or instructing the current staff member in how to properly do it. His demeanor reminded Gordon of the drill sergeants from his time in the military. Lucius was also there though his time seemed to be monopolized by other Wayne Enterprise board members. There were several other more formal guests like Mayor James and the DA, whom Gordon didn't know all that well. Barbara Kean had elected to stay behind this time citing that she was at best acquaintances with Wayne; she also said something about him talking her ear off at the previous gala. Lee had a reason to stay home as well, though hers revolved around running her clinic in the Narrows. Bruce seemed much more sociable, borderline bubbly. Traveling the world must have done him some good. Gordon decided it was best just to approach the young man; he doubted the interested crowds would allow Bruce a moment of peace.

"Bruce," Gordon walked right up to the man. "Couldn't keep away, could you?"

"Commissioner Gordon," a pleasant smile crossed Bruce's expression as he stuck out his hand to Gordon. "It's been too long. How's the position of commissioner been treating you?"

Gordon sighed, "As well as it has treated previous commissioners, I'm sure; the job has its ups and downs but it's all worth it to make Gotham safe." Gordon felt like he was speaking a bit stiltedly to Bruce. He quickly changed subjects, "I'd rather talk about you. You made quite the impression at the Wayne Tower Gala; no one was expecting you to return. It was a nice surprise."

"Well, I wanted to make an entrance," Bruce shrugged. "I've had nothing but good experiences Gordon. I can't complain."

"If you don't mind me asking, where have you been for all these years?" Gordon recalled a couple of conversations with Alfred over the years. He had often invited the butler to the house, but, whenever he questioned where Bruce was, he became quiet and often gave a non-answer. Usually, the non-answer seemed to signify that Alfred simply didn't know; Bruce had kept it secret from even the man who raised him.

Bruce shrugged casually, "A little here, a little there, never stayed in one place for too long. Spent most of my time in Monty Carlo. Jim, have you ever been to Monty Carlo? I thought you might have since you were in the Navy—or one of those things."

Monty Carlo? Gordon had always thought that Bruce went on a soul search of some kind. He certainly wouldn't suspect the young man to have gone off to gamble in Europe. He wondered why the young man abruptly seemed to be a bit more flighty than he remembered; he got Gordon's military branch wrong as well.

Gordon retreated a bit as the billionaire kept rambling on, "No, can't say they needed boots on the ground in Monty Carlo."

"Really," Bruce smiled through it seemingly oblivious to the confusion. "I'd assumed that you might have. Maybe I could pay for you to take a vacation. See the thing about the place is—"

Gordon was thrown a bit as Bruce started to talk very detailed about the higher social life in the foreign city. The young, stone-faced teen he had known for years seemed to have evolved into a more social, almost even vapid personality. It didn't feel right. The feeling was more confusion than anything else; he thought Bruce left with a purpose, not for an extended vacation. He seemed to have done a one eighty over the past ten years. Gordon almost couldn't believe that it was real. He mentally braced himself as he decided to learn more about who the Wayne had become.

"So, go anywhere else interesting?"

* * *

Selina stood on the balcony watching the swarm of socialites and politicians buzz around the billionaire. Honestly, Selina wondered why she tormented herself like this. Why did she come back? The manor had been built practically the same as the first. A rush of nostalgia ran through her as she saw sections of the house that reminded her of the part of her younger years spent in the halls. The lock system was even the same on the windows in the parlor, allowing for a quick entry. Still, she didn't know why she even showed up. No, that was a lie; she knew why. She just didn't want to admit it to herself. She wanted to see him.

She was almost disappointed when she saw him. The way he spoke, the movement of his arms, the way he laughed and slapped the occasional person on the shoulder: it wasn't Bruce. He was putting on a show. He was up to something; she knew that for certain. Damned if she knew what he was plotting. Despite the hope that she had years ago that he would return for her, she knew that she wasn't the reason he came back. There was something else, something more important to him than her.

Selina rolled her eyes, she was acting like a lovestruck child. She was staring at him across the way when she could be doing something more productive with her time. She had dressed up for the event, even sported the Queen's necklace despite the risk of someone recognizing it. Some part of her just wanted him to notice her. Another part burned with all bitterness inside of her. She let the second part win out. She shrugged. Screw him. If he was going to play games, then so was she. She'd at least make herself known by taking a few wallets or maybe steal some valuable from another room, but she wasn't going to contact him. She wasn't going to bow first. If he wanted to fix what he had broken, then he needed to make the first move. She would dance at the edge of his periphery and nothing more. She just had to avoid him, which might have been harder than expected.

There was a moment of eye contact with the billionaire. Selina paused for a moment as Bruce simply blinked stupidly at the sight of her. She turned tail and left the balcony and his gaze. Her heart raced in her chest, and she reprimanded herself for feeling anything. She should have never come.

* * *

Contrary to the smile he was flashing every ten seconds, Bruce was not enjoying himself. It was great to see old friends again—it was all he thought about sometimes during his days abroad—but the confused, disappointed looks on the people he met were disheartening. Gordon's look especially had wounded him; he hated to think that he had let Gordon down in some way.

His gaze drifted for a moment as he noticed someone on the balcony. For a moment, he thought it might have been wishful thinking, but he immediately dismissed it. He saw her; he was sure he did. Bruce looked over Gordon's shoulder as she turned away and disappeared into the crowd on the balcony. He was so entranced by her that he didn't notice the worried murmur that started to circulate through the crowd as new, uninvited guests arrived. He turned to excuse himself from Gordon.

That was when shots rang out.

* * *

The volley was a quick burst of bullets that were shot into the ceiling. The audience ducked instinctually at the noise except for Bruce and Gordon. Suddenly, they became aware of a small group of people pushing their way to the front. They wore different, darkly covered jackets and machine guns. They were military in formation, almost like guerilla fighters. The action was quick, pre-planned as they quickly carved up the room. As the guest realized the situation, many panicked and started to rush the door. In the chaos, Gordon was pushed quickly to the edge of the room followed by Bruce. The militants swiftly routed their advance by moving to the exit points and shooting into the air; that curtailed their advance. In a second, a man wearing a red-hooded jacket and a partially cracked white mask jumped onto the stage and seized the microphone.

"Alright, if we could have your undivided attention," The man in the white mask spoke into the microphone; malice and spite infiltrated his tone as he spoke. When no one quieted down, he pulled out a hand gun from a holster on his side and shot into the air. "I said undivided attention!" That silenced them, and he continued, "My crew and I will be your entertainment for the night. As you can see, your immediate exits have been blocked by my assistants, so I suggest you stay quiet and enjoy the show."

Gordon didn't immediately spring into action as he surveyed the scene; they weren't directly attacking the civilians in the room. Nine gunmen were in the room: one was the one on the stage and looked like the leader, one was now compromising the news camera, two were up on the balcony, one stood blocking the way out the glass doors and the other four guarded the two exits to the hallway. Those were the only ones that he had been able to observe; he was sure there were more hiding around the house. Gordon looked around for security, who should have been nearby to stop the sudden takeover, but they seemed to have vanished into thin air. The man looked over to the camera as one of the henchmen picked it up and gave him a signal.

"Hello, Gotham, I am Anarky," the man in the mask announced in front of the camera. "Welcome to the penultimate days of the established order. First off, to any half brained heroic GCPD employee out there, I need to make something clear." He held up a small device in his hand. "A little trigger with a dead-man switch connected to the bombs I placed in the center of the room."

He gestured towards the ice sculpture and the camera followed. An anarchist pulled up the drapes that were below the ice sculpture to reveal a wired mechanism tied to gasoline tanks. A soft gasp went through the crowd.

"Just a little poetic justice," Anarky mocked. "The lavishes of their party being their down fall. So, I see police get anywhere close and everything goes up. Also, security won't be coming to save you folks, I gave them a little paid vacation. You see Gotham, that's how little the people working for these swine care about them. So, we're going to watch them burn!"

Gordon slowly found himself pull away from the crowd. He wasn't going to let that happen on his watch. He tried to look around the room for assistance. He couldn't spy Alfred from where he was, but he knew the butler's training must have been kicking in. He saw Lucius glance over to him and give a small look of worry but nodded in show of his support of whatever action Gordon had to take. Then he looked back at Bruce to see what he was doing. Perhaps being in a stressful situation would bring out the determined, serious man he had once known. He was gone. It was almost jarring how quickly he had evaporated into the air. He couldn't see the brunette anywhere. Gordon shook his head it didn't matter the numbers; he needed to do something. Gordon placed a hand on his holster under his suit.

There was a click from the side and Gordon snapped over to find a gun barrel pointed specifically at him.

"No heroics today, Gordon," the anarchist hissed as he quickly disarmed Gordon. He then pushed him with the barrel of the gun, "Move it; get on the stage."

On stage, Anarky was still rambling on with his manifesto, "I was saving it for the anniversary of the reunification, but when I heard the pig prince was fat and back in town, I just knew I had to start here." Anarky grabbed the camera and spun it around to show the guests at the party "When the pigs fry, Gotham, you will be free! Free to do whatever it is your heart desires! You will be free! The banks won't hold you down, the government will be dissolved. The glory of No Man's Land will be restored."

Gordon was pushed up the stairs of the stage and in front of Anarky. Standing beside him, Gordon realized he was a bit shorter and a little leaner than expected. His voice didn't sound all that intimidating either; it was resting on a higher pitch than most men and it cracked a little.

"Ah!" Anarky said gleefully, "our fair commissioner! Hero of the people! The man who runs that joke called our police department!" Anarky paused as the sound of a helicopter started to penetrate the walls. He sneered, "Well, isn't that an uncanny response time. I guess when you have the money, it just takes a few seconds to get the police to your door. Paid protection: isn't that right, Gordon."

Gordon sized up the self-proclaimed anarchist and didn't engage. He knew the masked man was trying to provoke some kind of reaction, create some kind of twisted debate.

"Going to give me the silent treatment?" Anarky jeered. "That's alright, I don't need you to talk." He turned back to the camera. "See, in the face of reckoning, they go silent, plead the fifth, do anything to exonerate themselves and their failings. They respond to our righteous protests with silence!" He chuckled a little; then suddenly kicked the back of Gordon's legs so that he fell to his knees. Gordon had to stop himself from retaliating as he remembered the anarchist holding the machine gun was right behind him. Anarky continued, getting close to the camera lens, "Well tonight, they won't be able to respond with silence. Tonight, we'll make them pay for their ineffectual tyrannical leadership; tonight, they burn. But first," he gestured around. "Where is Bruce Wayne?"

There was a tense silence that went through the crowd.

"Wayne!" The masked man called out. "Where are you?"

Gordon glanced around, if Bruce was the man he knew years ago, he'd selflessly step up. That would blow any cover that the young man could have used. To Gordon's surprise, Bruce didn't step forward. He felt partially relieved that he didn't. If anything, it would buy them time.

"Wayne you coward!" Anarky growled as he surveyed the crowd. Obviously, he didn't see him and the other anarchist looking for him just shook their heads as they came up empty, "Huh, I had an entire speech planned out for him. I guess we'll just have to improvise." Anarky pointed the gun right at Gordon. Gordon didn't flinch. The masked man turned towards the camera. "Your commissioner James Gordon, like many Gotham officials he's a broken the law more times than enforcing it. He's had a couple of murders and gang affiliations swept under the rug because he's a 'good man'. It is sad to think that this city has stooped so low as to dignify men like this with that title. See Gotham it's men li—"

Sudden darkness fell across the room.

The lights went out; the only sight was by way of a few decorative candles. There was a rapid chaos that erupted as the crowd started to get antsy. The anarchists called for silence as threats and yelling filled the room. Gordon was about to charge the red hooded man, but the hand gun was readjusted so that it was pressed up against his skull.

"Don't move," Anarky growled, there was the sound of a walkie-talkie. "Des, what's the situation at the generator?" Static responded through the receiver. "Des?"

Some of the anarchists switched on the flashlights attached to the scopes of their guns. This illuminated the room in sparse cones of light.

"Go check the generators in the basement." He nodded, and they headed out of the room down the hall. There was an anxious mumble from Anarky that only Gordon could hear, "Jesus, that was faster than expected. I need more time." Anarky turned his attention back to Gordon with an astounding confidence, "If the GCPD is dumb enough to think they can get in here, then I surely overestimated them."

Gordon noticed something; as much as he threatened to tear down everything and everyone, he didn't seem keen on losing his life. If he were truly a maniac willing to sacrifice himself for the cause, then he would have blown everyone to smithereens at the first sign of potential police involvement. He wanted to escape, that was why he wanted to buy time. He wanted something bigger than what he was constantly propagating; Gordon could use that to his advantage.

Gunshots came from out in the hallway; it was surely coming from the men Anarky had sent out to check on the generators. The room sat in silence of hushed murmurs and gasps as the crowd waited in baited anticipation of potential rescue. Something slammed into the wall on the other side causing it to quake a bit. After a few moments of yelling and gunfire, there was deathly silence. Gordon felt a wash of worried confusion; it didn't seem like a GCPD action—they wouldn't risk getting everyone killed. Then, who or what was causing such a disturbance. Several moments of silence passed as the anarchists scanned the room with their flashlights.

There was a yell. One of the anarchists on the balcony screamed as he suddenly fell over the banister. Then there was a _snap, _a line caught, and he was suspended in the air. He dropped his gun as he lost consciousness, but the strap held the gun causing the light at the muzzle to spin a bit in the darkness. There was another sound of struggle and another flashlight beamed wildly throughout the room as something fought the anarchist. Eventually there was a cry in pain and the flashlight clattered to the ground. The anarchists tried to pinpoint the aggressor with their flashlights to no avail. The crowd started to get louder and louder as the chaos broke out. Anarky quickly shifted his gaze around the room, trying to get his bearings on the situation.

There was a loud _crack_ and one of the anarchists near the window went down: sniper fire. Suddenly a white stream of light came in from the glass windows: multiple spotlights. It created a blinding contrast of light and darkness in the room. The police outside had seen the chaos and decided to engage. That was the end for the crowd, they rushed the glass doors of the manor and pushed through to the outside while others escaped through the door to the kitchen. Even a few anarchists started to flee among the crowd. Among the chaos, Alfred did his best to direct the chaotic mob and Lucius helped pull someone to safety. Anarky looked on as the plan was falling apart.

"Damn it!" Anarky pressed the gun to Gordon's skull and grabbed his coat from behind. "Come with me!"

Gordon complied, but only because he was waiting for an opportunity. With the gun against his head, it would only take less than a second for Anarky to pull the trigger. He needed a distraction. As Anarky escorted Gordon out of the room, another thug was thrown off the balcony, this time without the mercy of a line, and he hit the ground with a _thud_. Anarky filtered out through the door that led to the hallway; the place was now lightly lit with the sporadic glare of the spotlight. He fired a shot into the ceiling to drive away any potential followers. They escaped into the hallway and Anarky was clearly starting to panic. He turned his head into his jacket to speak into the transponder.

"What the hell is going on?" Anarky growled, but there was no response.

Now able to see a bit in the dim light, Gordon took the opportunity to fight back. He quickly sidestepped and knocked the gun out of Anarky's hand. Gordon's next goal was wrapping his hand around the detonator—ensuring that the pressure was kept on the Deadman switch. He didn't get the chance as Anarky put his foot between him and Gordon and push kicked him to the ground. Gordon sprawled for a second. Anarky pulled a second handgun out of a holster on his leg and aimed it at Gordon.

"Fine!" Anarky yelled with a growl as he pulled his detonator hand into the air. "We all go up! Gotham will be better off for it!"

Gordon's heart froze for a moment as potential death loomed over him. Suddenly, there was a sharp sound in the air. Anarky gripped his hand and cried out in pain. From what Gordon could see, there was a sharp object penetrating through Anarky's trigger hand. Apparently, the knife was long enough to hit the detonator as well. The device sparked, died, and released smoke causing the disoriented Anarky to drop it. A shadow flew over Gordon.

"The hell?" Anarky brought up his gun hand and squeezed off a shot at the advancing shadow. It didn't deter it at all as he was disarmed. Anarky stumbled back and swung his foot. The shadow deflected it with a kick. Anarky fell to one knee. In a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand in the darkness, he reached for a concealed knife located in his boot. He didn't get the chance to pull it. The sole of a boot connected with the mask and, with tremendous force, kicked him back. The mask cracked under the pressure. Anarky hit the ground with a thud and stopped moving. The shadow stood tall over the fallen foe for a moment, and Gordon was left stunned.

"Alert the GCPD that the bomb threat has been neutralized, but the bomb needs to be disarmed," he spoke with a booming distorted voice.

He was gone, vanished into the darkness. Gordon was left in the dim light for an astonished moment until light suddenly flooded the room. He instinctually started to stand and whipped out his badge before he heard the entering police shout.

"GCPD!"

* * *

It only took a few minutes for Gordon to assume command of the situation. The bomb squad quickly disarmed the device, and, one by one, the unconscious anarchists were arrested and shoved into the back of the police van. The final one to be picked up was Anarky, who still had his mask. Now conscious, he wearily stumbled as an officer shoved him forward. Gordon and Bullock watched as he passed by; Anarky tilted his head as he saw them.

"This—this isn't over," He stammered as he passed them.

"Hold Kowalski," Bullock gestured to the escorting officer and approached Anarky. "This guy's holding on to some valuable evidence." He grabbed the shuriken where it had impaled his hand and quickly pulled it out. Anarky gave a quick yelp in pain. Bullock smirked at the mask, "Oh, and I'll take your costume too."

Bullock grabbed the bottom of the mask and ripped it off his face. Bullock reeled back a little as he saw the face underneath the disguise. The youth in the appearance of the anarchist shocked both Gordon and Bullock, he looked like he was in his late high school years at the oldest. Despite his youth, Anarky's eyes burned bright with hatred.

"What? Not used to seeing the face of the people you oppress?" He growled.

Bullock snorted in disgust, "Get the kid out of here; it's past his bedtime."

Kowalski pushed the protesting young man forward towards the police van.

"I swear, the little self-entitled snots in this town are really getting on my nerves," Bullock grumbled. He looked at the shuriken in his hand, "Wouldn't have done that if I knew he was a minor."

"After today, I don't think they're going to treat him like a minor," Gordon shook his head. "He threatened to kill two hundred people."

"Yeah, but his lawyer is going to eat me for lunch," Bullock sighed as he examined the knife. "Are you packing ninja toys now, Jim?"

"The vigilante," Gordon nodded. "He stopped Anarky."

"The vigilante?" Bullock looked confused. "Wait, like one guy took down all of these armed maniacs?"

"One guy," Gordon nodded. "He swooped in and moved through the darkness; must have had some sort of night vision. He also glided over me like—well, the kid we talked to a couple of days ago wasn't too far off with the 'bat' analogy."

"I think it's more of a motif at this point," Harvey held up the metal hiltless throwing knife. It was carved into the shape of a bat. "Guy has got a bit of an obsession if you ask me. Think he's trying to make a statement?"

"Bats? I don't know what kind of statement he's trying to send. Why bats?"

"Who's to say?"

Suddenly an officer came over, "Commissioner, we've done a head count and we're coming up short. We can't seem to find Wayne anywhere."

Gordon furrowed his brow, "Are you sure?"

Bullock added quickly, "You don't think this was a distraction for a kidnapping."

"I don't know," Gordon spotted Alfred standing in the middle of the situation. "Alfred!" He called and gestured for the man to join them. As Alfred made his way over, Gordon spoke in a low voice, "Bruce is missing."

A look of shock crossed his face, "Missing? What do you mean missing?"

"Bruce disappeared during the attack; we're searching for him now," A look of concern crossed Alfred's face; something else was in his eye, almost like he knew where that might be. Gordon bit at it, "Is there somewhere he might have gone?"

Alfred seemed to hesitate; then he sighed, "I think I might know where he is."

He led the two police officers back into the manor and made his way through the hallway. He approached a door and opened it as it led to a small library. Alfred then strode over to the first bookcase and selected a book. Gordon and Bullock glanced at each other briefly. Bullock opened his mouth for a second, probably to make a smartass statement about Alfred's choice in literature, but there was a click and the bookcase opened up to reveal a door behind it. Alfred grimaced a bit at them and then knocked on the door. The door behind the bookcase opened and out stepped Bruce. Behind him there was a small room, a panic-room, lined with metal.

"Is—is everything over?" Bruce stammered as he stepped out of the panic room.

* * *

After several hours of police investigation and questioning, the police had left the other half of the Manor alone and allowed a majority of the guests to leave. That left the parlor, and subsequently the access to the cave, far away from police investigation. Bruce, Alfred, and Lucius were left in the parlor to talk about the nights event.

"Sorry my party was nothing but stress for you, Lucius," Bruce apologized.

"On the contrary, you made my night," Lucius said. "Never had the chance to see the tech in action in the field except for those nauseating POV recordings you send. Now I know everything is working in fine fashion. I'm even more glad that the built-in signal disruptors did their job," Lucius smiled as he checked behind a portrait to reveal a built-in piece of tech. "If anyone wants to blow up Wayne Manor, they're going to have to light a fuse." Lucius paused. "You were relying on the disrupter to pull through, weren't you? It would have been reckless to break the trigger like that without having a backup."

"Of course," Bruce said with a sly smile. "Wouldn't dream about being reckless."

"Yes, that doesn't sound like you at all Mr. Wayne," Lucius sighed. "Well, I'd better get home. I have a meeting in the morning. Bruce, Alfred," he nodded as he headed out the back door of the kitchen.

"I'd say that was an evening to put in the papers," Alfred smirked after escorting the last of the police officers out the door. "The vigilante saves the day and Bruce Wayne cowers in a panic room."

"Better that than anything else," Bruce said. "The last thing we need is to get is a heroic reputation. It's better that Wayne have some sort of cowardly traits: he is just a sheltered billionaire after all." Bruce let a stony look cross his face as he thought for a moment, "A billionaire that attracts crazy people."

"Galas were being attacked long before you came around, Master B." Alfred said. "It's almost like an annual affair in Gotham."

Bruce nodded, remembering a few that he had attended, "You're right. Why not attack the returning 'Prince of Gotham'?" Bruce shook his head. "Still, I should have known about it. Anarky flew under my radar by operating on gas bombs and a small crew. Just goes to show that I need a broader networking system. I've been picking them up case by case and been focusing too much on the arms trade. My information needs to be—"

"You can start all of that tomorrow," Alfred nodded.

Bruce gave him a look, "I should start now, if I'm going to—" Bruce stopped as Alfred's frown became concrete. Bruce sighed. "Alright, I'll get some sleep." The morning was just a little while away, he could afford to waste a few hours.

"Very good, give your body some time to rest. I'll just assist the officers with their investigation. If they need you, I'll wake you," then Alfred left the room to return to the police line.

Taking a few moments to physically rest, Bruce put a hand to the bruise that had been forming on his chest. It ached when he touched it. Despite the armor protecting him from the fatal shot, the close range ensured that the force penetrated. Now he had a black and blue bruise where the bullet fire by Anarky had caught in the armor. He'd have to ask Lucius to start working on something to deal with close proximity shots or at least distribute the force. It would be hard to function if he was sore all the time, or maybe he should have just been stealthier.

He felt a slight breeze in the room. One of the windows was cracked open. Bruce went over to the opening and pulled it shut. That was absolutely against protocol; the window should have been locked. That meant that either someone opened it from inside or, more likely, someone broke in. He opened it and checked the lock; there were the subtle signs of a lockpick scraping the paint of the outer portion of the lock. As another breeze trickled through the open window, Bruce heard the slight rustling of paper. He looked over to the desk to find a letter.

Bruce went over to the letter left on the main desk. It was plain—no address or other information. Bruce ran his fingers over the letter to feel the contents inside: nothing but paper. He retrieved a letter opener from the desk and opened it up. After recovering the contents, he read the first page.

"_I can only hope you understand. The reason I am doing this is because I care so much about you. I would not leave under any other circumstance."_

Bruce stopped. These were his words; this was a letter he scrawled out hurriedly before a plane took off from the private airstrip. It was well preserved except for a slight cleft down the middle—as if someone considered ripping it to shreds. There was only one person who would have this.

He breathed words of relief, "Selina."

* * *

Jay smiled at the recently fixed television when he saw the red hooded man escorted down the Wayne Manor lawn. Anarky started to say something—some nonsense about the establishment—but was quickly silenced as he was shoved into the back of a police van. Jay laughed a bit. Served him right. He was just another idiotic maniac in a string of others that seemed to plague Gotham. It was just one less freak on the streets making it tough for the rest of them. He stretched his arm over his head to release some tension in his back.

Suddenly, his arm swelled with pain as a _crack _snapped through the air. He jumped in his seat and looked up at his arm. A long whip had coiled its way around his outstretched arm. With a flick, the whip pulled, and Jay was yanked over the couch and sprawled on the ground. The next thing he knew, there was a heeled shoe burrowing into his chest. He looked up and blinked as the owner of the whip stood over him.

She scoffed and shook her head as she demanded, "What the hell do you think you're doing in my apartment?"

* * *

**Hopefully you like it. I'm still working on how to write fight scenes, so let me know how I did. The next one will be out next weekend.**

**Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites; it motivates me to work harder and faster! Thank you for reading!**


	5. These Old Players

5\. These Old Players

It had been a long night; now, it was edging on 7am. Gordon, now out of his suit, was pushing papers, trying to get warrants, and handling other desk-oriented jobs. The mayor, sporting light bruising and a three-year shorter lifespan, had insisted that all evidence be collected as immediately as possible. It didn't help that the Coast Guard and the National Guard were now posted on the edge of the city; the mere mention of "No Man's Land" on public television was enough to rally an army. He received multiple calls every hour from a general, each time he would assure him that there was no credible threat to be seen that anything like No Man's Land would happen again. Honestly, he wished he was with Harvey raiding the old warehouse Anarky used as a base of operation, but someone had to deal with the bureaucrats.

At some point, the exhaustion of the night caught up to him and he unwittingly took a small nap in the middle of filling out a form. He was only startled awake after a few minutes when Bullock walked in with a progress report and some much-needed coffee.

"So, would you like all that we have on the kid or the vigilante?" Bullock asked pointedly as he sat down in the chair.

Gordon bobbed his head for a moment to wake himself entirely and insisted, "Vigilante first, he's still on the run."

"So, it seems that the vigilante had an unprecedented response time," Bullock said starting off the report. "Harper suggested we go through the guest list, considering we know the vigilante is a very wealthy guy."

"Find anything?" Gordon questioned now that they might have a lead.

"There were a few missing but they have alibies: female, too old, went home with someone, etcetera. If he was a guest, he was uninvited. A second story window was busted in, probably point of entry. A couple minutes after Anarky was incapacitated, officers witnessed a black vehicle emerge from the woods on the Wayne property and speed off towards the city. They lost it around the Diamond District."

Gordon thought for a moment, "That would seem to fit his M.O. He might have caught wind of Anarky's plan and camped out in the woods."

Bullock pulled out a plastic bag with the blood coated bat knife in it. "Also, we couldn't pull DNA off of the ninja gear except for Anarky. Guy's a ghost. Hey, that's a good name for him, 'the Ghost'—like the old serials, 'The Grey Ghost'."

"Leave it to the media to name him," Gordon waved it off. "So basically, we're the same as we were before."

"Not exactly," Bullock scratched his beard. "The only guy that was killed was by one of the snipers. Everyone else was simply knocked unconscious, a few broken bones and blunt trauma but alive."

"Strange," Gordon thought. "It was already weird that he didn't kill of the single hits but, to take down an armed unit without killing anyone even on accident, that's a concrete pattern. He must be doing it on purpose."

"So, what, he's got some code of conduct?"

"It's probable," Gordon nodded. "He might run on some kind of rules."

"Why?"

"Who knows," Gordon shrugged. "He might do it to keep people off his back. If he doesn't kill, there's not an immediate urgency to track him down and catch him."

"Playing it safe," Bullock nodded. "But he wasn't the only one there. Found one of the militants in the second story hallway strangled to unconsciousness with rope burns around his neck."

"Doesn't seem like him, sounds like—" Gordon thought for a moment.

"Kat?" Bullock nodded as he finished the sentence. "Yeah, the rope marks match those of a guard from the Gotham Museum two years ago. It's probably her. I'm surprised she came back. I thought she was done with Gotham."

"Wouldn't surprise me. Bruce and Selina were always close."

"Yeah, those crazy kids are all grown up and headed in totally different directions," Bullock shrugged. "Want me to start the lookout for her? I could go around and hit her old hideouts."

"Leave it for now, if she took out one of the gunmen, then she deserves a little leeway. Pick her up when you get wind of her actually planning to rob something."

"Gotcha. Now to the guy in red," Bullock shook his head as he opened the small file. "He's barely seventeen: Lonnie Machin—officially labeled as missing three months ago. For as much as he spoke about returning to the good old days, he wasn't even in Gotham during No Man's Land; he was in Metropolis. Family lived here though, had a business that got destroyed. The government was supposed to compensate, but, things happened, and it didn't come through. Some corrupt bureaucrat pocketed it, but no one knew until years later. His parents lost everything. Dad took a dive off of a building, and his mother is currently in rehab. He's been antigovernment ever since."

"But if he lost everything to No Man's Land, why try and reinstate it?"

"Who knows? I've heard some of the crazies on the street moan constantly about how much they miss the glory and freedom of No Man's Land. Harper's main theory was that, since he wasn't there, he must have taken their word as gospel before any 'government owned' newspaper. He's not talking at all; so, it's just a theory. If you ask me, he's just another nut in a long line of nuts. Probably felt like he missed out on the whole incident or something.

"He had a weird ass plan too; we found the details at his hideout," Bullock shook his head. "Apparently, he wasn't even after the people, just wanted the building to burn; damn near obsessed with taking it down as a 'symbol'. There were plans for an escape route. After a bit of showboating and negotiation, his plan was to release all of the guests then escape among the crowd; under all of the armor and jackets we found bowties and suits."

"That's why he didn't blow everything to smithereens when the vigilante started taking them down," Gordon nodded, now understanding the anarchist's hesitation. "He only decided to blow everything when there was no feasible escape. Anything else?"

"A good thing came out of this," Bullock gestured towards the door.

Detective Harper and Alvarez came in carrying giant stacks of documents. They gave short greetings and placed the documents onto Gordon's desk. Gordon looked at Bullock with a bit of confusion as the detectives took their leave.

Bullock shook his head, "The kid's been busy, and I mean really busy. He wanted to tear down everything, not just from a structural point, but from the inside too." Gordon picked up the file and Bullock continued. "That has documents, emails, transcripts, all the dirt you could ever want on any Gotham official. The kid was thorough," Bullock tapped the stack. "It's a political nuclear bomb."

"He made it look like the targets were the people to get attention, then he would blow up the manor, and release the documents to enrage the citizens; the perfect start to a revolution leading to the secession of the Gotham Islands," Gordon mumbled to himself.

"Tear down everything," Bullock nodded. "The kid meant it."

"Even me," Gordon muttered as he went through the different files. His was thinner than most, but when he flipped through it, old mistakes stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Hey, I've got a file too," Bullock snorted. "He's pegged most of the cops in the precinct, about eighty percent of our elected officials, and almost everyone with a bank account over seven digits. He's got affairs, extortion, bribes, probably even every time they've stiffed a waiter."

Gordon looked through the names and realized that there was a file on Bruce. He opened it for a moment and found it empty with a sticky note lamenting that there was a super encrypted computer blocking his hacking attempts.

"Who knows about this?" Gordon asked. "Something like this in the wrong hands could lead to disaster."

"Only Alvarez and Harper," Bullock shook his head. "I didn't trust anyone else. I came to you immediately."

"Good," Gordon muttered as he looked over the names. He sat back in his chair a little winded. He put a finger to his mustache.

"No," Bullock said suddenly. "Don't you start."

"What?" Gordon asked defensively.

"You got that look on your face; you're getting all righteous." Bullock continued quickly. "No one needs to know this exists."

"I know, Bullock," Gordon said softly. "But we're sitting on top of a mountain of corruption."

"It's not like we haven't before. We've always known that most of the people we rub shoulders with are crooked; it comes with the job."

"Yeah, but we've never had the evidence to prove it."

"Evidence? We won't be able to verify it without trampling everyone's toes; by then, they'd bury it all." Bullock made a flippant gesture. "For all we know the kid wrote it himself."

"It's enough for a warrant," Gordon shook his head.

"If we release these documents then Anarky gets his wish; it'll only put gas on the smoldering fire if almost every Gotham official got outed."

"I just know that if I do nothing and submit it to evidence it's going to disappear."

"Fine, then don't submit it," Bullock nodded. "Alvarez and Harper won't say a thing; I certainly won't."

"So, what? Store it in my filing cabinet and save it for a rainy day?"

"That's what I would do," Bullock shrugged. "Gotham has always had its crooked politicians. If you want to use it, we need to use it strategically."

"So only attack the ones who get in our way?" Gordon shook his head. It didn't sit well with him; the notion made him feel icky.

"I know it's not a perfect answer," Bullock admitted. "But we have a no-win situation. Release it all and Gotham loses faith in the people that run it. Don't release it and we're sitting on something major. The only way we could do it right is to piecemeal it out."

"Yeah, but now we're just using it to our advantage," Gordon shook his head.

"Better our judgement than anyone else's," Bullock replied.

They were spared from further conversation when a bit of shouting came from down stairs. Gordon and Bullock were on their feet immediately. Gordon looked out the window overseeing the precinct and saw officers verbally clashing with what looked to be federal agents.

"Great the feds are here now acting like the own the place," Gordon sighed. "We won't get anything else out of him before they pull him away from us."

"Maybe not," Bullock pointed to the holding cells. In the corner, they caught sight of Anarky as he glared at them and mouthed Gordon's name repeatedly. "I think he wants to talk to you." Bullock huffed. "I'll deal with these government jackasses, you go see what the pissant wants," Bullock exited the office spoke loudly to dispel the arguments. "Well, well, if it isn't the agents of Uncle Sam! Gentlemen, I've got some paperwork for you to fill out before the transfer can happen." He reached over and grabbed a random form from a desk and handed it to them. "I hope you guys have your Social Security Number memorized!"

Meanwhile, Gordon made his way down into the holding cell to meet with the dissident youth.

"Gordon, you're certainly glad that your dog came to the rescue," Lonnie sneered. "What is he CIA, FBI, some sort of Black Op?"

"If you want to talk, make it quick, no speeches," Gordon said sternly.

"You have the documents I assume," Lonnie muttered.

"Yeah, so?"

Lonnie leaned in, "You're at least one of the half decent cops in Gotham. You want to make a difference? Publish the documents, give them to the news—and not one of those government papers. Let the People decide who leads them!"

"And then what? Watch as the whole of Gotham's government is torn down? The fires of anarchy start?"

"We both know what's going to happen if you go through the system," Lonnie said quickly. "How long do you think it's going to be until they figure that maybe you looked into all of the documents? How long until they decide to silence you?"

"If you're trying to scare me, it isn't working," Gordon looked unimpressed.

"Gordon, you're a man of honor—whatever that means in the world today," Lonnie said knowingly. "I know it's going to eat you up inside to know that you have the evidence you've been yearning for splayed out for you on a silver platter. You want to get it out there, and you know I'm right." Lonnie leaned past the bars so that he was closer to Gordon, "So, what are you going to do, hero?"

* * *

Jay paced outside of the apartment. He wasn't going to give up that easily. He had slept on the stairs the night before after waring himself out yelling at the woman threw him out. Now refreshed, he decided it was time for round two. He pounded on the door.

"You up yet?" He called. "I want my stuff!"

He put his ear to the door to see if there was anything like footsteps. There wasn't a sound from inside. He pulled up his fist and started to pound again. He wasn't going to lose all of his stuff just because the owner came home. He stopped again and listened: still nothing.

"Scram kid," the woman suddenly spoke from the other side, it made him jump a little at the sudden noise. He didn't even hear her approach the door.

"I need my stuff," Jay demanded quickly.

"Your stuff?" she scoffed. "Considering I found you on _my _couch watching _my _TV and squatting in _my _apartment, I assume that you probably don't even own the shirt on your back."

"So?"

"_So_, get out of here. If you work hard, maybe you can steal some better stuff."

Jay rolled his eyes, "Just give me my lockpick; I just got this one."

There was a bit of silence and then some ruffling, "This thing? You can pick with it? It's so rusty I'm surprised it didn't snap in half on your first try."

"It's a temporary replacement." Jay shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just give it to me."

There was a pause and then she spoke again, "No, I think I'll keep it. A little kid with a lockpick will just get into a lot of trouble. Being a responsible adult, I'll keep an eye on it."

Jay muttered some choice curses under his breath, "Fine, I'll come back later. It's not like you're always going to be here."

"Word of advice: don't tell people you're going to break into their place later," She laughed a little. She paused for a moment and thought, "How'd you get in anyway?"

"The window," Jay said it with a hint of annoyance.

"The window?" She questioned with disbelief. "That's shimmying on a five-inch ledge over a fourth floor drop to get into a room."

"I'm agile like that; it was easy." That was a boldfaced lie. He had almost fallen three or four times. It took a good thirty minutes of tense shuffling to get over to the nearest window.

"Why? Hear I had something valuable?"

"Heard the lock was a bitch; I thought I'd give it a go. When I couldn't get in, I got curious."

"So, just a curious kid," She sounded amused as Jay went on; he couldn't decide if he was winning her over or if she was just toying with him.

"Yep."

"Fancy yourself a burglar?"

Jay shrugged, "When it suits me; I don't like smash and grabs or pickpocketing, brings too much conflict. I'd rather go in quiet." Jay huffed as his patience ran thin. "Whatever, keep it. I'll find something else."

"Wait," A call came from behind the door.

"What?" Jay called annoyed.

On the other side of the door, Selina was chastising herself. She suddenly had a twinge of empath for the kid. Several years ago, and on multiple occasions, she had experienced being abruptly evicted from her place. Usually, she only managed to keep a place for six months at the most; then it was sleeping in a pitched tent on some rooftop until the next place was found. Evicting the kid after he spent a while trying to get in didn't seem right. It didn't help that he had impressed her with his agility; it would be hard for even the best cat burglar to break in to the place. She sighed. It wasn't like she was staying for very long; she had only come for Bruce. If that didn't pan out, then she'd just steal something and leave.

She sighed, "Look kid, I'm not going to be sticking around for much longer, I'll probably skip town by next month."

"So," Jay tried to read what she was saying, "come back in a month?"

There was the sound of the door unlocking and the door slammed open. The woman was standing there in short pajamas, arms folded; she gestured for him to come inside. Confused but a little optimistic, Jay stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.

"Ok, first," she looked at the wall. "Explain the wall of crazy."

Jay glanced at her sideways then back at the wall. His hobby had, admittedly, turned into a sort of obsession: different newspaper clippings and pictures were taped on the wall in a pattern-less formation. He had spent a couple of days on it. Time he usually spent loitering, spying marks, or just watching TV was now spent finding newspaper articles talking about the vigilante to form the "wall of crazy."

Jay shrugged, "Everyone has a hobby."

"Yeah, sure, you head of his fan club or something?"

"No!" Jay didn't meet her eye. "I just saw him take someone down a while back. Thought he was cool." Jay felt a little embarrassed, so he turned the question on her. "Why do you care? Just give me my stuff."

"Look kid, I'm interviewing you to see if you can stay here," the woman explained. "Got to make sure you're not crazy or something. I've never had luck with red heads in that department."

"What?" Jay was a little off guard. He'd never had someone offer him a place to stay before. He immediately got suspicious. "What do you want?"

She chuckled a bit, "A partner; someone to look after the place when I'm gone, a renter of sorts."

"Renter?" Jay mocked. "Lady, do you think I would be here if I had the money to rent a place?"

"Oh, that's funny," She said with a mockingly confused look on her face. "Because you've been costing me a lot of money just by squatting. I've been getting a lot of bills despite not staying here: electric bills, water bills, the telephone bill has been extraordinarily high—who have you been calling? I hope it's not a 1-800 number you're a little young for that." She counted the numbers on her fingers. "That's about a grand and a half that you owe me for your time spent here. Not to mention you trashed the place," She gestured to a pile of potato chip bags. "The gist is you owe me. If you want to stay here, you're going to pay me. You can either do it your way, or you can work for me and get a years' worth what you usually get in a single score."

Jay gritted his teeth and hissed a reply; she wasn't as altruistic as he had hoped, "What kind of work?"

She shrugged, "I might require some help stealing in the future, alright? I'm setting up something big, a finale of sorts before I skip town again. I need a little assistant to help me out. Think you can handle that?"

Jay thought for a moment. At least she wasn't a part of a gang; she seemed to work solo. Her proposal was also appealing. Then again, he knew he couldn't sign up with her. She was being intentionally vague. What if she asked him to do something he couldn't do? Hell, what if he got caught?

"I can't," He shrugged. "I just do what I have to do to survive."

The woman cocked her head to the side and examined him for a moment, "I thought the same thing once: survive, keep your head down, don't get involved. Let me tell you: you can do so much more than just survive. You can," she gestured around, "have something like this; I don't know. It beats eating cereal for three meals. I'm not the worst person to join up with; I won't sell you down the river. I know where you're coming from, and, if you don't want to end up working for the Street Demons or something, it's better to break out now and make a name for yourself."

Jay thought about it for a moment. He didn't have anywhere to go. It couldn't hurt him to start getting more money. It just felt too good to be true. He needed to know more.

"We're not killing people, right?" Jay asked pointedly.

"No," The woman shook her head. "Not unless they shoot first, which is really unlikely. We go in silent, fast before anyone knows we were there. If it does come to that, you won't have to kill anyone."

"Do you steal from poor people or small businesses?"

"No, those people are bleeding enough," She said. "Just rich jackasses with too much money on their hands. I was thinking more of an artifact this time, but I'll have to keep planning before it's solid."

Jay was quiet for a moment. He couldn't think of anything else to ask her.

"So, you in?" The woman asked. "Are we partners?"

Jay nodded slowly, for once, he was in contemplative silence.

"You got a name, or do I call you 'squatter'?"

"Jay," Jay introduced himself.

"Full name kid," the lady said. "I don't deal in street names; I need your real one."

"Right," Jay nodded. "No secrets between us."

"No, no secrets from you. I own the place; if you're going to bum off of my rent like you have, you need to tell me everything I ask. Don't even think about lying. I'll know; I always do."

He huffed a laugh, "Sure," he stuck out his hand for her to take, "Jason, Jason Todd. My friends call me Jay."

"Yeah, we're not friends," she took it, "Selina Kyle, nice to meet you, Jason." She looked around, "You can start making it up to me by cleaning the place. Oh, and you're sleeping on the couch."

* * *

"In latest news, the Wayne Manor takeover a week ago is still sending shock waves through the city. Many are still debating the existence of the proposed hero of the night. The Batm—"

"I just want to say that it is an honor to play with you gentlemen," Victor Zsasz spoke over the radio that played in to corner of the asylum rec room. "After four years, it is good to deserve a seat at the table."

"Don't thank us, I was tired of playing the same people every time."

The third member at the table nodded with a look of concentration as he looked over his hand.

The forth was silent and motionless as always.

"I mean you guys have always been so exclusive," Zsasz went on. "It felt like I was barging in on the VIP of the place."

At the table sat the four most notorious inmates at the asylum. Victor Zsasz sat back in his wooden chair as he surveyed the other players. Jonathan Crane's expression was unreadable; that was partially because he wore an old potato sack or pillowcase over his head constantly. He had gotten to the point in his therapy where he didn't always need to wear it, but the Scarecrow would haunt him if he didn't bond with it after so many hours. Zsasz always thought it was a stupid excuse to hide his face during cards. The third player was not as capable at hiding his emotions. Jervis Tetch had been unable to express himself verbally to the rest of the inmates for ten years. He had a gag order on him when he was outside of his cell; this was enforced by a shock collar, which he gladly accepted in leu of having his jaw wired shut. The only form of communication he was able to give was a written note on the small chalkboard he carried around or a wayward expression. The fourth was not a player per say. He had a hand of cards, but he was more or less a pool from which the other three could pull cards. If they didn't see the card they wanted, they would simply look at his hand and take it. It was cheating of course, but mutual cheating, so no one cared.

The decks at the asylum were notoriously uneven and old. It wouldn't be surprising if someone got a handful of chewed baseball cards. Zsasz had yet to figure out if the men at the table took the games seriously or not; sometimes they, namely Tetch, would get violently angry when they lost. Other times, they simply shrugged off defeat and started again. Zsasz attributed the change to the various medications all of them were on, which sometimes promoted weird mood swings. Either way, he was having a delightful time; he just wished everyone talked more.

"So," Zsasz muttered as he tried to make conversation with the only person at the table who could. "Heard you have been busy writing a thesis, Bagman, very highbrow."

"Scarecrow," Crane corrected, he would have stopped there but the interest sparked a conversation. "Yes, I have written over seven-hundred pages worth of a thesis: 'Fear, the Mind, and How to Embrace It'—it's a working title. I have attempted to receive feedback to get it published in a journal, but nothing has come of it."

"Why would that be?" Zsasz knew the reason why, he was just making conversation.

Tetch finished scribbling a thought and showed it to Zsasz, "_Please don't get him started."_

"Well the experiments I use as examples are hardly perfect or sanctified," Crane seemed a little miffed at the thought. "I've been having trouble keeping the formula straight having to use the janitor's supplies in order to create the gas. The experiments are rarely of sane mind, so there is no base to start at; usually I get outliers in my experiments at worst. I can also never see the long-term effects as they've usually put me in solitary confinement after each one, and the patient usually dies shortly afterwards."

"Oh yeah," Zsasz cocked his head to the side. "I remember. Gregory jumped screaming out a window when I tapped him on the shoulder."

"I have only received one response from an academic journal."

"What did it say?"

"One word: 'Disturbing,'" Crane shrugged. "The academic world is a hogwash of uninspired drudges who don't dare push the boundary for the betterment of mankind."

"Truth to that." Zsasz nodded coolly. "Top hat, you have any fours?"

Tetch shot a glare as Zsasz and tossed one at him.

"Thank you very much, buddy," Zsasz smiled. There was a moment of pause; then he looked around for orderlies before speaking, "You guys working on an _escapeyay anplay_?"

Crane paused in what Zsasz interpreted as confusion, but Tetch jotted down something on his board and showed it to Crane, "_Pig Latin: 'Escape plan'."_

Crane shook his head and spoke with dry sarcasm, "No, why would I ever be thinking of that. It's so wonderful. I've spent practically half my life in here; why would I ever want to leave?"

"Well," Zsasz shrugged. "I heard while I was in solitary confinement that the last man who was in my place kinda booked a flight out of the country before anyone realized he was missing in his cell. Maybe you know how he did it?"

"I could not care less about Nygma," There was a deadly, frightful tone in Crane's voice.

To the side, Tetch held up his chalk board, "_Crane's sore because he beat us in cards every time."_

Crane grabbed the chalkboard and casually tossed it across the room while Zsasz pondered how in the world anyone could win any of the games they played consistently.

"Hey—" Tetch pounded his fist on the table like a thumping rabbit's foot as an electrical current shot through his body.

"Oh, is the dog barking again?" Crane slighted as he returned to his cards. "Go fetch."

Tetch made many gestures at Crane, slitting his throat and mouthing the words, "I'm going to kill you," again, and again. Crane paid the threats no mind. Finally, Tetch threw his arms in the air and went to go retrieve the chalkboard; already, someone had started to gnaw on the board.

"Aw," Zsasz cooed as Tetch fought with the patient over the board. "You guys are like an old married couple."

"Yes, and it is a reason we do not escape," Crane sighed. "Admittedly, working alone to escape seems to have been something of Nygma's expertise. After the riddle man got away, they have increased security to the point that it is impossible to escape on our lonesome."

"So, we form a team," Zsasz said simply as Tetch returned to his seat. "A fellowship of compatriots like Dorthey in that story you like Tetch. We've got a Scarecrow, Tetch can be the munchkin or something, I could be the professor guy, and silent guy over here could be the aunt we leave behind."

Tetch was busy furiously scribbling out a thesis on how Zsasz was wrong in every feasible way, but Scarecrow responded.

"It wouldn't work," Scarecrow shook his head. "We've tried before and every time we've decided to betray each other before we got out. We can't trust each other or even you. You might get a ping to murder us and decide to knife us right there."

"There is truth in that, Bagman," Zsasz shrugged. "Was there anything that made you not want to kill each other while you were escaping?" Zsasz asked casually.

There was a moment of pause, both of them thought for a moment then Tetch scribbled something quickly and showed it the same time as Crane spoke, "Jerome."

Crane continued, "He instilled enough fear to make sure we didn't mess up his plan by killing each other."

"Oh, well," Zsasz cocked his head to the side, "that's going to be quite the problem'o. Jerome was kaput a long time ago. Unless—"

All three of them looked at the fourth player. Zsasz scrunched up his face as he examined the lifeless eyes of the fourth man. He tapped his chin while thinking.

"Maybe. . ."

"He won't do," Crane mumbled as he took the opportunity to steal one of the fourth man's cards. He huffed as he saw the front, "A joker card: useless."

Tetch showed his chalkboard: "_Gone, gone, gone that one is."_

Zsasz didn't pay attention as he poked the man's skin.

"Hey," Zsasz said as he examined the fourth, motionless man at the table. "Does he seem a bit pale, like paler than usual?"

* * *

Lonnie sat seething in his cell in Blackgate. He was to be tried as an adult. Tried: that was a complete misnomer. He would be publicly humiliated and "mysteriously" shanked six months into his prison sentence or, worse, carted off to some black site and tortured into mind numbing acceptance. Worst of all, whatever shred of hope he had put in Gordon had failed. There was no document release at all; his revolution was dying. He wasn't going to let that happen. He knew he had to get out somehow. He just needed time to make an escape.

Suddenly, the door to the cell opened. He stood at attention; he didn't want to be in a sitting position when they came to interrogate him. To his surprise, there were two burly inmates standing in the door. He put up his fists; he wasn't going down without a fight.

One of them gestured for him to stand down, "No fighting, the boss wants to see you."

"Boss?" He sneered. He put his hand down. He knew he would have a hard time fighting off the two; their hands were bigger than his skull. The beckoned him to follow; he shuffled between them as they escorted him through the cell block. Eventually, they came to a barred door. One of them made a gesture, the door buzzed, and they moved their way through to the other cellblock. Lonnie decided whoever wanted to see him held immense power in the prison.

Finally, they reached a cell and the door was pushed open, and Lonnie was shoved inside. The cell was lavishly furnished. There were throw pillows, a carpet, a TV in the corner, extra bedding; it smelled of lavender too. The centerpiece of the room was a small clothed table with a large lunch; prime rib was being served. All of the niceties and lavishes centered around one man; Lonnie didn't need to know him to know who he was.

"Cobblepot," Lonnie growled as the man finally looked up over his long nose.

"Our resident revolutionary," He greeted back. He simply gestured to the chair opposite of him, "By all means, have a seat, grab a bite; it's better than cafeteria gruel."

"I'll stand," The next thing Lonnie knew, two massive hands gripped his shoulders and shoved him down into the seat hard.

"Listen," the Penguin said as he shoved a chunk of steak into his mouth. "When I offer something it's just a really nice way of telling you to do something."

"What do you want Cobblepot?" Lonnie sneered at the crime lord.

"Straight to business I see. So, I need a bit of a favor," Penguin continued to eat. "See, I get out on good behavior in a couple of days, and I've heard there has been a lot of activity going on out there especially concerning this 'bat' as they've been calling him. He's been making my business hard to run—even harder than running it in prison. He's been taking out my stashes and—" he waved it off suddenly, "never mind the minutiae. What I need is details about this guy, a little firsthand experience. Everyone who has run into him has been drinking out of a straw or too stupid to explain it coherently. The GCPD's been tight on the evidence as well, they say he doesn't exist." Penguin scoffed. "Like my stashes are being taken out and reported by a figment of someone's imagination. I heard you had a bit of a run in with him and—" Penguin flippantly pointed with the knife at Lonnie's bandaged hand, "there is the proof, so to speak. So, what does this 'Batman' actually do?"

Lonnie thought for a moment then shook his head with a laugh, "You think we're in this together, that there is some sort of comradery between us because we happen to be sharing a prison. See it's people like yo—"

Cobblepot held up his hand to stop him, "Let me stop you before you go into one of your entertaining speeches. You're new to this whole Gotham criminal process. You bought a costume, chose a name for yourself, took a judo class, and believed you could change the world. I get it. You're young! You're invincible! That kind of attitude is why you're going to end up dead before your trial date," He patted Lonnie's hand. "You need to know who's in charge, figure them out and find out a way to appease them—at least for now. Then you can start your campaign or whatever. So," the Penguin sat back in his chair, "appease me."

Lonnie scoffed. "You think that you can intimidate me with your lackies and your wealth?" He leaned over the table and rattled the china. "You are just another problem in Gotham that I am going to root out. If the vigilante takes you out before I do, that's less work for me. Scum like yo—"

Penguin snapped his fingers and pointed to Lonnie's injured hand. Suddenly, Lonnie's arm was grabbed by one of the prisoners and another wrapped his arm around his neck; they held his hand against the table.

"What are you—" He barely got any words out before the tip of the steak knife grazed the stitches on his hand. He held back a cry of pain.

"See, I was trying to be polite," Penguin sighed as he slowly inched the knife into the wound. "My therapist said that I can't solve all of my problems with violence." He shrugged. "Just goes to show how dumb he is." He jabbed the knife through the hand until it hit hard wood.

Anarky gritted his teeth as a hushed yelp escaped his throat.

"Now," Penguin started to twist the knife and the sound of cracking bones could be heard. "About the Bat."

* * *

A couple new bruises, a knife wound on the left arm, and a sprained wrist were the recent rewards for his nightly crime fighting. Now, at nearly three in the morning, Bruce took one of his first rests from the nightly job in several weeks. Even though he had been initially reluctant to return, Bruce knew that he couldn't beat the feeling of resting in his own home with a crackling fire blazing in the fireplace that doubled as the entrance to the cave. He still had the urge to be down in the cave working, but, he had already uncovered yet another weapons stash two hours earlier. So, it made him feel like the night wasn't a total waste.

Alfred had long since retired to his room, leaving Bruce some tea which he gladly sipped. Bruce's propensity for work didn't completely subside, and he quickly found himself over by the desk in the parlor sorting through mail from the previous week. Most of them were letters of welcome from people who had not been able to attend the party at the manor. Among the names, he found the likes of Tomas Eliot, a couple of his other friends from his younger years, one from Barbara Kean, whom he had chatted with at the Wayne Tower opening, and of course Lee Tompkins. Bruce was especially impressed with Lee; she had established a charity-based clinic in the Narrows and was supporting the community down there.

Finally, Bruce came upon a more official letter. He stood up from the desk as he read the address, Arkham Asylum. There could only be one reason they would be sending him a letter. He swiftly opened up the letter and examined the hurriedly typed print.

_Mr. Wayne,_

_We would like to inform you that Jeremiah Valeska has passed while under our care._

_The Arkham Staff_

Bruce took a long look at the message. A wave of different emotions passed over him. Finally, he was gone. Bruce, for some reason, didn't know how to feel. He shoved the conflicting emotions away and tossed the letter into the fire.

* * *

**Thank you for your comments, they help! Thank you for reading!**


	6. Departed

6\. Departed

Selina woke once again to the sound of the TV blaring in the early hours of the morning. She sighed, kicked off the covers, dressed out of her pajamas and into pants and a black shirt, and made her way to the door of the room. She unlocked the door and flung it open. The young teen was already up with a cereal box in his hands. His feet were up on the couch as he flipped through the channels. He was fishing the cereal from the box with his fingers.

"Do you have to play the TV that loud?" Selina snapped groggily.

"Your stupid cats woke me up again," Jason huffed as he noticed her come into the room; he looked to glare at a white cat on the top of the sofa.

"Milky isn't stupid," Selina said as she walked past the couch to the kitchen and gave the cat a scratch behind the ears. "She probably doesn't like you sleeping in her spot. Your pillow is right where she used to curl up and sleep."

"Well tell her I'm taking her spot from now on," Jason still glared at the cat. Milky simply hissed and jumped off of her perch. Jason hissed back.

"Don't be mean, I like some of my strays more than others; the troublesome ones get the boot," Selina called from the kitchen.

Some major modifications had to be made in order to keep on her new stray. First, the garbage food had to go. He didn't complain too much at that, much to her relief. Some of the stuff he ate would have made a hobo sick to their stomach. The more major griping came from her demand that he would clean up after himself. He didn't have much, but whatever he did have usually was stored on the floor. Even now, there was a pile of clothes in the corner of the room. It was almost a constant place of contention between the two. Manners also escaped his understanding, as evidenced by the hand in the communal cereal box. Still, he was clean for a street kid, which wasn't saying much.

As she pulled out some orange juice from the fridge and poured herself a glass, she remained in a bit of a sleepy stupor until she heard something familiar come from the TV: "Jeremiah Valeska." Only a couple of seconds after the words were said, Selina was perched behind Jason. For a moment, a bit of panic sprang up as she saw his name in the news. The panic subsided when she saw the full context of the news. Jeremiah Valeska: dead.

"Good." Selina merely said as she caught sight of the news. Finally, that psychopath was dead. For years he had plagued Selina's psyche; at her worst times, especially after Bruce left, she would have dreams of the night he had shot her. It had played over and over in her mind for several years; sometimes, she would wake and immediately flex her toes just to make sure she could still feel them. Even now, her hand wanted to go instinctually to her abdomen where he shot her. She resisted the urge as a surge of relief washed over her; he was gone forever now. He would never harm her again.

"You hate him too?" Jason asked as he noticed the look on her face.

"I assume everyone does," Selina shrugged. "He just hurt me more personally than others."

Jason looked at her sideways, "What happened?"

"None of your business," Selina huffed quickly. She snatched the remote and turned off the TV. "Come on, let's go train."

Jason grumbled under his breath. "Training" was, more or less, Selina taking pleasure in absolutely humiliating him at every turn. She was a skilled fighter to say the least, and she didn't hold back as evidenced by the bruises on his arms and chest. He had questioned why he needed to learn to fight in order to simply burgle something—her answer was simply: "There are always complications." Yeah, he just thought it was just payback for sneaking into her house.

"Didn't you get enough sick pleasure when you kicked my ass last time?" Jason grumbled.

"No," Selina simply shook her head, "now come on."

Getting up and on the roof of the apartment building only took a minute. Jason had a habit of wearing his clothes to sleep, so he merely got some shoes on and trudged up the stairs to the roof of the abandoned apartment complex.

Training started as it always did, unexpectedly. The first time he had gone up there to train with her, she had kicked his legs out from under him midsentence. Even on the staircase, he had his fists balled ready for anything. This time, she had gone ahead of him, which was never a good sign. He waited a second behind the door to the roof. He looked out the small window that the door provided. No sign of her, but that didn't mean she wasn't there.

He quickly pushed open the door and rushed out with his hands up. He glanced around and was surprised that she was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, he was softly pushed forward from behind. Jason stumbled forward and whirled around to find Selina behind him. He put his hands up and readied his fighting stance. Selina merely smiled and walked the perimeter just out of Jason's reach.

"So, why was my phone bill so high while I was gone?" Selina asked. "You have a girlfriend in Paris?"

Jason kept his guard up, he knew she often talked to get his mind off of the fight. He shrugged with his hands up, "People sometimes leave dopey answering machine messages when they leave town; they usually tell you how long they'll be gone and whatnot. I go through the phone book, call until I hit the first one that says how long they're out of town, and find the place. Didn't always work out, I'd find one in every thousand or something calls."

Selina had to admit the kid was creative, maybe even a little smarter than she first thought. That didn't mean he was fast as she suddenly got close and swept his legs. Jason toppled clumsily to the ground.

Jason let out a string of curses as he lay on his back. Selina backed off, swaggering to the side and turning her back for a second. She heard a quick shuffle as he scrambled to his feet. Predictable. She side stepped as Jason flew past her with a flying kick. At least he was trying.

"Keep it up and you might actually hit me one day," Selina taunted.

Dismayed and out of breath, Jason pulled up into a fighting stance but didn't advance. Instead, he decided to use her own tactic against her.

"So, what was your beef with that psychopath?" Jason asked again. That got him a kick in the side that sent him stumbling back a bit.

"I told you, none of your business," Selina said again more sternly; she immediately went into critiquing him. "You need to be light on your feet. You stand like a brick right now. That might work when you grow older and actually get some meat on those bones, but right now, you're like a twig. You can't take too many hits, so avoid them."

Jason rolled his eyes but popped up onto his toes, he knew she was right.

Jason didn't leave the subject alone; if she was going to be so damn defensive, then he would have fun guessing, "Were you like his girlfriend or something?"

Another kick came his way, but he dodged it. A smile crossed his face in triumph. That was quickly wiped away when a second back kick hit him square in the stomach and sent him falling onto his back.

Selina's face was one of annoyance crossing into anger, "Ask an insulting question like that again and I'll punt your ass to the moon."

"I'm just asking a question, lady!" Jason growled.

"People don't have chats during a fight," Selina said quickly. "I'm being realistic here."

"You started it!" Jay threw his hands up in protest.

"Why are you so curious anyway?" Selina shot back.

"I would like to know something about you besides the fact that you nag me about cleaning up, kick my ass all the time, and disappear a lot. You said something really ominous about that crazy psychopath too, like you knew him," Jason panted as he slowly sat up. "Yeah, I'm a bit curious about the weird cat lady who invited me to stay in her house."

Selina rolled her eyes and looked away from him. She sighed. She was being rather vague. It wasn't even completely intentional; she just didn't trust anyone with her inner thoughts. She remembered when she was that young. Too smart for her own good and the adults still treated her like a child. Jason was probably just as smart, and he hated being out of the loop as much as she had.

"It's not like I know all that much about you," Selina shrugged. "Maybe it's best we keep it like that."

The boy cocked his head to the side with a frown. He realized he was going to have to spill before he ever got something out of her. He huffed suddenly and got to his feet, "I was in No Man's Land."

Selina raised an eyebrow, "Really? You remember that? You would have been two years old."

"Kind of," Jason shrugged. "I don't remember much."

Selina thought for a moment, then she decided to prod a little farther, "Were you in Haven?"

Jason's eyes sparked for a moment, "Yeah, I was in Haven. Were you in Haven?"

Selina shrugged, "Yeah, a bit." Jason made a face as she remained unclear, so she went on, "I was there for quite a while, but I also hung out at the Sirens."

"Oh," Jason smirked, "the man-hating club?"

Selina scoffed a bit of laughter, "Yeah that one."

She expected a half-assed gibe from the kid, but Jason became uncharacteristically quiet. If Selina had learned anything about the kid, it was that he didn't usually stay silent. She turned to look at him and he seemed suddenly unsure. His guard was down; she thought about taking advantage of the conversation but didn't to keep his trust.

"Did you um—" He seemed to stutter for a moment. "Did you know a Willis and Catherine Todd?"

Selina paused for a moment running through the names of the different people in her mind, "I don't think so."

"Are you sure?" Jason asked, there was a bit of bitterness in his voice. "You're not—" he bit back the accusation and went into his pockets. He pulled out a folded-up picture and handed it to her. She opened it to see a toddler being held by two people. The mother looked sickly with almost sunken eyes and a pale expression while the father looked a bit more robust if a bit shady with the questionable tattoos on his arm. "You sure you've never seen them?"

Selina simply shook her head, "I saw a lot of people. I wasn't paying attention to most of them; I was preoccupied with my own problems."

Jason sighed and swiped the picture back from her. He shoved it back into his pocket with a grumble.

Selina thought for a moment, "They were in Haven when it was bombed."

Jason paused as if weighing the pros and cons of giving her this information and then nodded slowly. "I don't remember much from when I was younger, but I remember that." He was silent for a while longer. "I don't know too much about my parents, so I was hoping someone would. But. . ." Jason went silent again.

Selina sensed the sadness, so she quickly changed subjects. She turned and started to walk towards the stairwell.

"Come on," She gestured to him. "We're going out."

"Out?" Jason looked confused. "What do you mean out?"

* * *

"Leave it to the media to name him," Bullock huffed mockingly as he sat in the passenger seat of the police vehicle. "It's not like the media's going to name him something stupid."

"I kind of like it," Gordon shrugged as he gave a quick gesture to the gate guard. "It fits."

Harvey shoved the paper towards Gordon allowing him to see the headline: _The Wayne Manor Incident: Why the Police Don't Want You to Know the Batman Exists_, "Batman? Really? You're telling me that 'Batman,' is a cooler sounding name than 'The Ghost'?" Bullock shook his head. "What am I saying? You're a dad, your meter for cool broke years ago."

"And yours hasn't?" Gordon smirked a bit as he pulled into the parking spot.

"Mine at least tells me that Batman is a pretty weird name," Bullock huffed. "It's not enough he's making us look bad."

Gordon simply turned off the engine and stepped out onto the wet pavement. Gordon was just glad to be out of the office for once; it took his mind off the files. He absolutely hated simply ignoring the fact that he possessed evidence of corruption and he couldn't use any of it effectively or at least without upsetting the order. So, until he figured out how to deal with them, they sat in his filing cabinet. He just wished his distraction from the office didn't involve a trek to Arkham.

The facility had been upgraded over the years. Most of the improvements had been geared towards security, this led to the already old building seeming even older. It had been several years since the last time he had visited. He wasn't keen on revisiting, but today's meeting had been ordered by the mayor himself. Everyone wanted to make sure that the psychopath was dead.

After going through a several security checks, they finally walked through a corridor leading through the main part of the asylum. It was just as decrepit and eerie as he remembered when he was a simple guard. They started to pass by the recreation room on their way to the warden's office. Gordon lowered his head as he passed; he caught glimpses of people he had personally put behind bars. It was best they didn't recognize him. His wish to quickly pass through the area wasn't fulfilled as a patient further down the corridor started to scream and act erratically. The guards instructed both detectives to stay put while they dealt with the patient. The guard left them there in the hallway.

"Hey-o Jimmy," Gordon whirled around to see Zsasz calling from behind the wired fence to the rec room. "Didn't expect to see you here anytime soon."

"Zsasz?" Gordon furrowed his brow and approached the bald man. "I thought you were in Blackgate. Why are you in Arkham?"

"Well Jimmy-boy, it's a bit of a story, but I'll give you the bullet points," Victor shrugged. "So, spent about four or five years in Blackgate avoiding Penguin like the plague. I got to kill quite a few of the guys he sent after me. That attracted the attention of the medical staff. They caught me marking my latest kill into my forearm, found it appalling, labeled me a nutjob, and sent me here. Apparently, I get too much if a rush from killing people to be considered a functional citizen. But it's nicer here; less Penguin jerks trying to shank me in my sleep. Plus, I made some friends."

Zsasz gestured back to a table where Crane and Tetch were sitting. Both of them—or at least Tetch—were glaring in his direction. Gordon made sure not to look uneasy as he stared them down.

"So, you're playing the system," Gordon said returning his gaze to Zsasz. It wasn't the first time some thug pled insanity to be put in Arkham.

"I don't know," Zsasz shrugged. "I mean, not to self-diagnose, but I've always felt like killing people never affected me that much. _So, _I might have some natural sociopathic tendencies. I'm here to get better after all. Hey, have you heard anything about Ivy?" Zsasz asked suddenly changing the subject. "I've been hearing that people have been disappearing in the rainforest or something, but I don't know if that's her. Probably is, my girl just does love to kill people who kill trees. I'd write her, but she doesn't have an address. And she would probably get mad that I used paper."

"No, the crazy bitch is long gone, and she's not coming back for you lover-boy," Bullock said with a hint of superiority.

Zsasz simply shifted his gaze to Bullock, "Rude." He pushed his face up against the fencing that separated the rec room from the hallway. "You know detective, now that you said that, the moment I get out of here, I'm going after you first." He smiled politely as he issued the threat.

"Yeah?" Bullock was undisturbed. "It's a date."

"Commissioner," One of the guards said as he approached. "It's clear."

Neither of the policemen said goodbye as they turned their backs on the bald man.

"Bye Jimbo! Bye Harvey! See you soon!" Zsasz called merrily.

They continued back down the hall, and Zsasz spun around to rejoin the game of go-fish.

Tetch flipped up his card, "_Tally marks mean nothing if you cannot kill Jim Gordon when you are inches away from him." _Tetch shook his head with disapproval.

"You could have at least stabbed him with that sharpened spoon I gave you," Crane growled.

"I wasn't feeling it, alright?" Zsasz shrugged as he slapped the sharpened spoon on the table. "And I didn't see either of you jumping to your feet to engage in a little murder. Besides, he wasn't close enough. Jimmy is a smart cookie."

Gordon and Bullock entered the warden's office only to be greeted by the man immediately. The warden was a middle-aged spindly man with a long nose and large glasses. He seemed anxious and sweaty; he constantly dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and complained about the heat despite the AC blaring in the background. He invited them to sit down and they exchanged pleasantries for a couple of minutes before getting to business.

"Dr. Knowles," Gordon started to go into the main business at hand, "you understand why we're here."

"All too well," the man shook his head. "The reporters won't leave me alone. I've had Vale down here, Ryder, even Vic Sage from Hub city," He sighed. "Every one of them chasing a Pulitzer; none of them cared for the patient, only the story."

"Yeah," Bullock nodded and sarcastically added. "Cuz he had a lot of people who cared about him."

Gordon continued, "We will need to see the body before you are able to dispose of it. The mayor was very clear on that point. You've probably heard about the last time we thought a Valeska was dead."

"Well, in that case, you will be very pleased that it won't take a trip to the morgue," the warden pulled out a small metallic urn from the behind the desk: a bit of dust settled as he placed it down. "Here's the body."

Bullock and Gordon blinked simultaneously.

"Is this a joke?" Bullock alleged.

"Certainly not," the warden said through thin lips. "The immediate orders from the established rules were instant incineration. A couple hours after death, we had Valeska cremated."

Bullock looked skeptical, but Gordon spoke, "We would have preferred to have been present during cremation. We've had to deal with one resurrection already. The mayor just wanted to be sure this time."

Knowles smiled bashfully and said slowly, "We assure you that the cremation was carried out in a mannerly fashion. He was very dead; years of paralysis and vegetation finally took its toll. As for the reasoning, he was found dead in the later evening. We didn't wish to disturb you."

"I wish you would have," Gordon emphasized.

The warden nodded and gave a curt dismissive laugh, "Point taken, but I assure that you did not miss much. I've seen many and this one was no different. Plus, his death was upsetting some of the more violent inmates. You can understand why we had to get rid of him so quickly. Fire is a much more permanent anti-revival than any sort of evisceration." The warden slapped a file onto the desk. "If you have any questions about my methods or if it actually happened, you can consult the reports from the four armed-guards and two morticians that were in the room with me during the cremation. I could even make copies if you wish to take them back."

Gordon sighed, "Anything to put Mayor James at ease. In all honesty, this could have been completed with a phone call, but you seem equipped to do that with all of this information."

The warden seemed to anxiously lick his lips, "Well, I've had a lot of practice. I've been harassed about this all day. You can imagine the stress I'm under. First it was the reporters, then it was Mr. Wayne, then reporters agai—"

"Did you say Wayne?" Gordon questioned at the familiar name.

"Oh, yes. I thought it only fair that the main benefactor of Mr. Valeska's betterment be alerted to his sudden passing," the warden scanned their expressions to see if he had made a misstep.

"Wait, Wayne paid for Jeremiah's treatment?" Bullock asked as confusion was creeping into his expression.

"Yes," the warden nodded. "It's in the files, but," he blinked, "before he left on his world trek, he sent specific instructions to the warden at the time insisting that he would pay for whatever treatment Valeska needed. He felt guilty for the damage Valeska had caused by using Wayne tech and wanted to take the expenses off the taxpayer. He was here a bit earlier asking similar questions to you." The warden swallowed. "If I broke some kind of protocol, I'm sure that it was unintentional."

"No, I don't think you did," Gordon said as he thought. "It's just a little odd."

They talked for about thirty more minutes, going over the minutia of the case. Gordon nodded contently as the facts seemed line up; the mayor would be satisfied at least. Something just didn't sit right with Gordon. Perhaps it was the feel of the asylum, the uncanny timing of the death, or the fact that Wayne was paying for all of it, but Gordon didn't feel content with the finding. He sensed that something was going on beneath the surface of the facts. It was gut instinct. Something was wrong.

"I don't know, it seemed fishy," Gordon confided to Bullock as they exited the asylum several minutes later. "Wayne had his hand in the Jeremiah's treatment the whole time, and I never knew about it. The warden seemed a little too ready with the evidence."

"Yeah, the guy seemed like a bit of a wreck, like he was hiding something," Bullock waited until they entered the car to continue. "Do you think Wayne killed him?" Bullock asked; when he got a suspicious glance from Gordon, he explained his reasoning. "I mean, if he was in control of Jeremiah's entire treatment, he could have bribed a nurse or something to kill him."

Gordon was taken aback by the sudden idea, "No, Bruce wouldn't do that. He's not that kind of person."

"I don't know, he's changed," Bullock shrugged. "He looked like he was having a damn panic attack in the saferoom. After being targeted by Anarky, he might have decided it would be better to take out the last person who decided to try and kill him. I mean, if I had that much money and control, I would be taking out my enemies left and right."

"Harvey, I know it's hard to believe in people these days, but I trust Bruce wouldn't make that decision," Gordon shook his head. "No matter how much he has changed."

* * *

Bruce sat back in the chair as he waited for the DNA tests to come back. Alfred came down in the elevator and stepped out into the cave. He caught sight of the young man sitting at the terminal and walked over to see what he was doing. A metallic urn was cracked open at the top and the ashes were currently displayed on a tray and being examined by a machine. Alfred knew immediately why the machine was being used.

"I thought you couldn't pull DNA from cremated ashes," Alfred commented as he gazed down at the machine examining the remnants.

"Proper cremation does tend to burn away any chance of identifiable DNA, but sometimes parts of bone and teeth survive the process. If they do, they're crushed to fit in an urn." Bruce explained. "There's a possibility that some fragment of bone might contain Jeremiah's DNA."

"And, how was it that you got Jeremiah's remains?" Alfred questioned.

"I have my ways," Bruce said simply and flashed the ghost of a smile.

"Oh, I shudder to imagine," Alfred said as he looked over the equipment. "Is there a particular reason you decided to display Jeremiah's ashes and run it through a DNA check? I thought the papers, your interview with the warden, and the documents you observed would have been enough."

"It doesn't feel right," Bruce was in intense concentration as he continued to check through the systems on the computer. "It's too—" he thought of the word, "anticlimactic for Jeremiah."

"Well, he was essentially braindead the last time we saw him," Alfred nodded. "Can't imagine one could orchestrate a plan whilst braindead."

"But someone else could," Bruce said.

"Well," Alfred shrugged. "Let's go over the evidence. Multiple witnesses to the cremation, pictures of the deceased, long term brain damage, death confirmed by a Gotham general doctor, no reported suspicious activity."

"The warden was uncharacteristically worried," Bruce noted.

"Well it's not every day that you get to meet a billionaire," Alfred said. "You need to remember that you are intimidating in both of your chosen personas."

"Still, we both know that people can be bought, and documents can be forged," Bruce said.

"I'm just insisting that, despite the corruption that might plague Gotham, I doubt someone would go to the trouble to release him—especially in his condition. Almost everyone in Gotham loathes the man."

"Except for her," Bruce tapped the keys a bit and nodded to a name on the screen of the computer.

"Ah, yes, Ms. Ecco, or whatever name she goes by now," Alfred skimmed the line. "Let go from an upstate mental asylum about three years ago—they insisted on keeping her away from Jeremiah. Apparently, she was deemed sane; her insanity was caused by 'mental manipulation and severe head trauma at the hand of a psychotic psychopath coupled with severe Stockholm syndrome'. After a couple years and surgeries to remove that bullet from her brain, she was brought back to health."

"Or, she was faking it." Bruce said. "We both know that Ecco was dedicated to Jeremiah even before she lodged a bullet in her brain. Why would she give that up? She could have figured out a way to get him out."

"Apparently, her IQ dropped about twenty points due to the bullet impact," Alfred shook his head. "I doubt there would be any master plan coming from her. Even if she did break him out, there wouldn't be much of a threat, just a poor woman with an obsession and a body." Alfred continued to read. "It doesn't seem like she would have had much of a chance to concoct a plan. She regularly checks in with her parole officer and hasn't been absent from her work in over a year."

Bruce didn't seem satisfied with the explanation Alfred was giving. Something logically didn't bother him, it was the fact that it felt wrong. Over the years of harsh training, he learned that sometimes his gut feeling was more accurate than any logical explanation. Alfred would obviously call this paranoia, but it didn't feel unreasonable to doubt everything.

There was a ping from the computer and the results were quickly displayed on the monitor. The computer found some semblance of DNA among the ashes. Bruce tapped the keys for a second before he saw the comparison from Jeremiah's DNA to the ashes: MATCH.

"Well," Alfred nodded curtly. "That solves that." He patted Bruce on the shoulder. "I'll go fix some lunch before you get your scheduled four hours of rest and prepare everything for your nightly outing."

"Thank you," Bruce said as he sat back in the chair. He waited until the elevator doors closed before sitting up again. He tapped the keys and ran the comparison through the computer again. MATCH. Again. MATCH. Again. MATCH.

* * *

"This is humiliating," Jason grumbled as he trudged through the Gotham Museum on Selina's arm.

"Oh, come on_ nephew_," Selina teased as she pinched his cheek.

A few people in the museum took notice of the action and pleasant smiles crossed their faces. Jason bit back embarrassment as he endured the role she had chosen to play.

Jason pushed her hand away from his cheek and mumbled, "When you said we were going out, I thought that you meant like for lunch or something, not scouting out a place."

Selina hissed through gritted teeth, "Shut up. Ok? Stand in front of this."

Selina pushed Jason in front of an artifact and pulled out a camera. She snapped a couple photos of a dejected Jason before taking a look at the photo. Jason was annoyed to say the least. At first, he thought the outing would consist of some sort of lunch out; it had been years since he had eaten at a restaurant. However, now he was being dragged through the museum in stiff, baggy "teenager" clothing and a baseball cap to play house with his cat-crazy employer.

"Come on, smile. It'll make the family bit look more natural," She frowned a bit as she went through the photos and lightly smacked the top of his head. "Don't flip me off. An aunt would never allow that to happen. Be in character: act like a stupid thirteen-year-old who's with his amazing aunt."

"Yeah, _amazing_. Aren't we being a little loud if we're trying to be sneaky?" Jason asked.

"You'd be surprised how little people eavesdrop on another conversation," She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him in front of another artifact before snapping a couple more photos. "We've just got to keep up appearances for the cameras for when they go looking for people who might be scouting out the place."

"Oh," Jason nodded. "Wait, we're not going after _all_ this stuff, right?"

"No, just one," She gestured for him to follow. There was a small crowd gathered around a single exhibit. Selina grabbed the back of his shirt as she escorted him to the front. "The Tigress Diamond," Selina pulled Jason over to the mark. It was a one-inch diamond with an orangish hue to it in the middle that was situated under a glass casing. It was the main display in the room. A red velvet rope kept everyone four feet back from the pedestal and the floor sunk down around it.

"Oh, so we're after this rock," Jason nodded. "It's not really big."

"It's worth more than you," Selina chided a bit. "Besides, smaller marks are better; easier to carry."

Jason looked around, "Doesn't seem like a lot of security."

"Yeah, it doesn't _seem _like it," She pushed Jason in front of the diamond and took some photos on her camera. Jason took a second to pose in front of it. He decided to at least have fun with it and started flexing through multiple poses. Selina rolled her eyes, "Well, at least you're acting like a thirteen-year-old now."

She lowered the camera and started to flip through the pictures. Jason came to her side to see what she was doing. The pictures she took of him were off-center, Jason wasn't even in focus this time. She zoomed in on the casing surrounding the diamond, she focused on the corners of the glass. The image started to clear and little orange lines were shown across the edges of the glass box. Jason realized that it wasn't just a regular camera.

"Hmm. . . sensors placed on the edge of the glass," Selina muttered quietly. "Doesn't matter if I cut the glass, the silent alarm will go off." There was another snap and Selina apparently got a picture of the floor below the pedestal and box. "Oops," she smirked as the orange lines also appeared on the floor in front of it. "Just as I thought, weight sensitive plates, no way to get close on the ground."

"So, we're pretty screwed," Jason said looking up at Selina for explanation.

"No, there's a way, there's always a way," She tapped him on the cap. "The skylight," Selina nodded upwards at the large window panes above. "That's what I need you for, help me keep steady while I go down on the line and, more importantly, be my lookout."

"Look out for what?" Jason asked as she seemed to stress the lookout part.

"Guards, cameras, vigilantes—"

"Vigilantes?" Jason blinked. "You don't think he's going to show do you?"

"I don't know; I thought you were the expert on the guy," Selina said. "There is a possibility that he might show, so, I need you to look out for him." She slapped him on the back encouragingly, "Hey, you might meet your hero."

"I don't want to meet him," Jason said quickly. "He'd kick my ass in a second." He paused. "Wait is that why you've been training me, to fight that guy?"

"No," Selina shrugged. "I just didn't see a benefit from taking in a kid who didn't know how to at least handle himself. Do you think you could take down the man to took out a squad of armed goons? You're just lookout, ok? If you see him or anyone else, I need you to tell me, so we can get the hell out."

"Yeah, but what about the security cameras and the silent alarm you were talking about?" Jason asked as he looked around.

"Don't worry about that," Selina beamed. "I've got that covered."

She gestured for him to follow her down the corridor. There were no stops this time as she headed specifically to a door built into the wall. She leaned up against the wall next to the door and lowered her head. Jason followed suit and lowered his cap over his eyes.

Selina flipped open her phone and counted to herself, "Three, two, one."

Suddenly, the door opened, and a guard pushed past and into the crowd while holding a brown lunch bag. As the door swung back to close, Selina caught it with the toe of her heels. Unexpectedly, she started to breath erratically. Curious, Jason glanced around to see what was happening. To his surprise, he saw tears roll down her cheeks. She sniffled as her face became a soft-destressed pink; she ran her hands through her already curly hair to make it seem more erratic and displaced. She pulled something out of her handbag, a small device that she put between her fingers.

"Hey—what ar—"

"Make yourself scarce, then, come in when you hear the cue," Selina hissed hurriedly then entered the room. Jason stuck his foot in the door to keep is slightly propped open so he could hear what was going on inside. She took a moment to get into character and touched her arm self-consciously as she entered the room that contained several monitors and a lone middle-aged security guard. This was almost too easy. "Excuse me," Selina choked a bit as tears came to her eyes. "Can you help me?"

The security guard turned around in his chair and blinked at the sudden appearance of the stunning woman at the door to the guard room. He stood at attention immediately, "Wha—what seems to be the problem ma'am?"

"It's my nephew," Selina sniveled as she walked right into the room full of monitors. "I lost him somewhere. He's thirteen, red hair and—" She looked quickly at the monitor over looking the diamond. "Maybe I can find him on one of these."

She pushed past him quickly and placed her hands on the computer. In a second, the device she had hidden between her fingers was placed on the back of the monitor. Meanwhile, Jason had to cover his mouth to avoid a snicker from coming out. Honestly, the security guard looked so bewildered and unable to handle Selina's act.

"Oh, ma'am," the security guard remembered his station for a moment, "please don't touch—"

"I'm so sorry," Selina sniveled as she turned around and covered her mouth with her hand. "It's just, it's the first time I've seen him in forever. My sister, Bridgett, and I got in a huge fight and I never got to see him. Now, I've lost him, and Bridgett will be mad an—"

"It's alright ma'am," the officer tried to deal with the hysterical woman. "I'm sure we can find your nephew," he turned to look at the monitor, "just give me a—"

Jason figured that was his cue to enter, "Aunt Selina?"

"Jaybird!" Selina practically screamed as she rushed over to the redhead and wrapped him up in her arms. Jason felt embarrassment well up in him as he slowly wrapped his arms around her in a faux-familial hug. She let go and turned to the guard, "Oh thank you so much! I couldn't have done this without you." She quickly addressed Jason, "Come on Jay, let's get going."

She quickly pushed Jason out of the security room.

"Umm…" the bewildered security guard was at a loss of what to say as they quickly exited. "You're wel—" the door slammed behind her.

They quickly made their way out of the museum and disappeared into the crowd.

"Geez," Selina said as the tears disappeared in an instant. "You'd think they'd get better security at a place like this."

"What was that?" Jason asked bemused.

"That," she said as she pulled out a tissue from her pocket to wipe away the melting eyeliner. "Was a very, very expensive trinket that I just put into the security room. Basically, I give this thing a day or two to work its magic and get into the system, and it'll turn off the silent alarm and the camera when I activate it."

"No, I meant like, what was that whole routine?"

Selina smirked, "It's called acting, kid. Sometimes it's better to go in loud. You can get a lot from it. You're still young enough to pull at the 'cute and innocent kid' card. You just need to lose the jaded, troublemaker look in your eye."

Jason scoffed, "Yeah, not happening any time soon." Jason crossed his arms as they exited the building. "Well, you could have told me this was a stakeout from the beginning, then I wouldn't have gotten my hopes up for food."

Selina gazed at him sideways, and she noticed he was glancing at her with a "you owe me" look in his eye.

"Ok, fine, you earned it," Selina said. "You want an ice cream?"

"Hell yeah!"

* * *

Long after the visiting hours of Arkham were over, Warden Knowles was still in his office waiting for a phone call. At this time of night, the guards were rather minimalist, and his section of the asylum needed the least amount of security. The first sane man in his proximity was two corridors away. Perhaps it was for the best. The hours of the night dragged on, and his hands sweated profusely. He licked his lips as the minutes ticked on. Sweat started to accumulate on his forehead as time continued to tick by. Where was the damn phone call!

He pulled up his pant leg to look at the device that was now attached to it. It was an old ankle brace, one used for people under house arrest, but it had a very different purpose. The device had been tampered with, extra additions forged by basic metallic materials made the device explosive. He had not taken on this ankle brace willingly. About two days ago, he had suddenly been knocked unconscious in his office. When he came to, the brace was tightly strapped around his ankle and someone was sitting in his chair. He had been horrified to learn that his life was in danger, but he was even more horrified at the prospects of what he had to do to save it. The instructions had been made clear. Alert the authorities: die. Deviate outside of his normal routine: die. Fiddle with the machine in any way: die. He didn't dare push the boundaries and followed the instructions to the letter. The previous couple of days had been nothing but tense execution and strenuous convincing in order to satiate his captor's will. Still, that final, releasing phone call had yet to come.

_BRING!_

He grabbed the phone in an instant and pressed the receiver to his ear.

"I did it; I want the key!" He paused as the person on the other line talked. "Yes! I marked it just like you asked!" He suddenly looked at the bottom of the urn with a bit of shock. "The mark is gone. Someone must have switched the urns. How did you know—" He shook his head. "Never mind that, where is the key?"

There was a pause as the person on the other end continued to speak. Suddenly, the warden went stiff and pale.

"Wait…" The warden whimpered weakly. "But you said. . . You promised! I did everything! Nothing went wrong!" Horror crossed his expression as he continued to talk.

The device clicked. He gazed down with horror as a little red light flashed.

"But I did as you asked. I helped you!" The man screamed something, anything to knock some reason into the person on the other end, "You can't do this! I have a family!"

That only evoked laughter from the other end of the line.

The device beeped faster and faster.

"Help!" He turned to the door and yelled the only thing he could think to yell. He suddenly remembered the distance between him and the first guard and him. Then again, what could they do if they were close. He dropped the phone and was unable to think of the best position to take in order to survive. He collapsed on the ground, stuck his leg out as far away from himself as possible, and covered his head for protection. The beeping was now a continuous sharp note. It would go off any second. There was nothing he could do.

The warden screamed!

Nothing.

For a moment, the warden thought that he was in shock; that his leg was at least blown in two. He pulled his head up. Nothing had happened. The beeping stopped. He glanced down, looking to see if the device had gone off. The red light had disengaged. A little tune started to play from the device on his ankle. His face felt wet and he realized he had been crying. A fuming rage boiled up in him. He scrambled over to the phone. Laughter blasted from the phone as he picked it up.

"I see," he huffed bitterly. "You tricked me. I hope you got a laugh out of it you sick bastard!" A weary smile crossed his face, "Well, you miscalculated and showed your bluff." He grounded his teeth and growled into the speaker. "Get ready to be chased to the ends of the earth, because when I..."

His voice trailed off and a long silence ensued. The voice on the other end started to recite things; things that should have been unknown: names and addresses of important people in Knowle's life—what color clothing they were currently wearing and where they currently were. The warden was intensely silent through the list. Finally, the voice issued one final instruction.

"I understand. I'll be quiet," he swallowed. "Goodbye."

The line went dead.

The full realization of what had just happened flashed though his mind and he breathed, "Oh my God."

* * *

**This one would have been out earlier; it just ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would. Well I hoped you enjoyed it!**

**Thank you for reading!**


	7. Crimes, Laws and Those that Enforce Them

7\. Crimes, Laws, and Those that Enforce Them

"How do I look?" Oswald questioned his nearest bodyguard. He needed to look good for the camera; it was his big reentrance after all.

"Right as rain, Mr. Cobblepott," he responded without a second thought.

Oswald sucked in a breath of air, straightened his bow tie and indicated to the bodyguard. He pushed open the doors to the precinct only to be suddenly swarmed by the ever-interested drones of the press. The flashes of cameras, the microphoned reporters, the body guards, the debonair clothing: Gotham knew how to make a crime boss feel like a rock star.

Oswald broke through the crowd and ignored whatever bantering questions they were intent on asking. His body guards helped establish a boarder—even to the point where one of them grabbed a camera that came too close and tossed is over the crowd. Oswald just wanted to get in the car as he hobbled down the stairs. They were giving him a headache. If it were up to him, he'd have the whole lot dragged down by their ears and—he sighed. He needed to breathe—his therapist had told him it was good for his health. If he was going to raise his blood pressure, it was going to be for a damn good reason. His driver opened the door and he slipped in quickly.

"Mornin' Mr. Cobblepot," Oswald turned suddenly to see a woman sitting in the seat next to him. She was blonde, skinny, wore horn-rimmed glasses, had her face peppered with freckles, and a voice tinted with an Irish lilt. The woman saw his confusion and made note to greet him with an extended hand. "Peyton Riley, I was your main correspondent and bookkeeper while you were kept away."

"Ah," Cobblepot sighed as he remembered the many, many letters and secret messages he had sent to this person. "Mr. Wilk's replacement, so, you've been running everything while I've been gone."

"Well, at least for the past six month and a half, from what I hear, that's a long time," She nodded.

Ah yes, Riley came after Wilk, who came after Jameson, who came after MacLaine, who—well Oswald's memory seemed to peter out after that. The point was that they had all taken the role that had once been allocated to one very dead Mr. Penn. Even after the madman's brains had been blown out by the Riddler, the job post needed to be filled rather quickly as the legal system tightened around Oswald. He had needed someone and someone fast. That had ensured that incompetence thrived since they were not handpicked. Therefor, the people who were unable to handle loss or complications were swiftly fired from the position. She was right, six months was an unusually long time to be in that position.

"Well," Oswald smiled pleasantly, "Let's hope it's even longer, Ms. Riley." There was a veiled threat in his words. He barely even recognized it was there; whatever intimidation came from him tended to come so naturally now that he didn't even have to think about it.

"Of course," She smiled through the threat. "Now to business." She opened up her folder as the car started to pull away from the curb and flock of reporters. "Now, where would you like to start: the formal reports of gun sales, the police, or the vigilante?"

"Where do you think?" Oswald answered with an air of annoyance.

She quickly riffled through her notes and continued talking, "We were hit for the first time about three months ago; however, before that, there were more subtle raids on the transportation. Some of them go back as far as five months ago. The original thought was that there was a new gang musclin' in on the territory, but that was debunked rather quickly. Each time, the police have been anonymously made aware of the arms and all have been confiscated."

"Yes, yes," Oswald interrupted quickly. "I know all of the basics, your reports got through the mail. They were surprisingly thorough. I want to know: is he working for anyone or is he building his own empire?"

"It doesn't seem like it; as I said, everything is confiscated by the police. If there is any form of takeover, then it's from them. We've lost a bit of revenue. Some have stopped buying from us entirely; they're superstitious lot. He hits others as well, but not as hard—probably because we have the largest territory and supply. If he is helping someone, then he's also hurtin' them. If he's building his own empire then he hasn't hired anyone, and he isn't selling anything."

"Come on, he must be working for someone," Oswald grinded his teeth. "Someone must be paying him." He sighed. "With all my luck he'd end up being the pawn of some sort of cult or psychopath."

"He might be just what they say," Riley suggested. "a vigilante takin' down criminals."

Oswald scoffed, "You're new to Gotham, aren't you. No one ever does anything here without expecting something in return."

"Perhaps he's not from Gotham," Riley implored.

"If he wasn't from Gotham, there would be no reason for him to be here," Oswald said finitely. Why did his best information for the vigilante come from sticking a knife into a juvenile delinquent? "Fine, move on to Gordon."

"Ah, yes, Gordon," she flipped through the pages until she landed on the police's name. "He's been rather busy keepin' everything afloat. Fightin' real hard, but previous people who've had my station have followed your instructions. We've kept out of the limelight. We used to feed him information, so he could make a small bust every now and then, make him feel important. 'Course sir, I—"

Oswald seemed to drift as his anger towards Jim Gordon boiled up. Years of cooperation and a pseudo-frenemy relationship went down the drain within days of the government regaining power. Every criminal was meant to be locked down, situated, controlled; like he would ever let that happen. He thought that after all he had done to save the city from destruction, but all they wanted was blood—blood of the "freaks" and the "insane" who marred the city for a year. Of course, when it came time for Gordon's big forgiving heart to be opened to the saviors of Gotham, he turned them in for some cheap approval. Whatever pardon they were given was only translated into eighty years off in prison, leaving about twenty to serve, nine because he had been "good." Cobblepot resented ever trusting the snake; he'd gone easy on the Anarky kid because at least he shortened Gordon's life by a couple of years.

Seeing his anger, Riley simply asked, "Would you like me to put a hit out on him?"

Oswald almost smiled at the thought but groaned as his greater pride wouldn't let him, then he growled with a fury, "No. If I'm going to kill him, it needs to be right. I need to tear him down, make him watch his world crumble before him, burn everything, then I'll kill him myself." Oswald shrugged allowing the anger to fade. "That's the only way to do it."

"Oh," Riley was clearly taken aback by this sudden anger. "Understood."

"Anyway, if he's not making any moves on my supply like this other guy is, then let's focus on our vigilante pest," Oswald nodded. "Let's focus on the Bat first, _then _we'll have Gordon's head."

"Understood, sir."

* * *

"You ready?"

"Hell yeah," Jason replied as he slipped on his mask.

It was four in the morning or "peak guard drowsiness time" as Selina called it. Both of them were in the alley next to the museum and were in stealth uniforms. His wasn't anything fancy, a simple ski mask and some black sweat clothes. He was also burdened with the task of carrying all the stuff they needed in a bag slung around his back, which altogether weighed about twenty pounds. Selina's gear seemed much more thought out with a tight leather black stealth suit and a custom mask that formed to her face and head unlike his baggy mask. She carried on her the whip she had used on the night she had kicked him out as well as metal tipped claws at the ends of her gloved hands. They had entered a conversation about their attire earlier—not so much a conversation, but a comment from Jason ("Dominatrix much?")—but that led to a swift smack on the back of his head.

She took a moment of pause as she pulled out her phone and tapped something on it.

"Ok kid, outside cameras are running a loop now. Let's move!"

They moved around to the back of the building, having pried open a chained fence to get in. They rounded the building and came across a fire escape with its lowest level pulled up into itself. Selina went ahead under the escape, knelt down, cupped her hands, and nodded to him. Jason put his foot on her hands and was suddenly pushed into the air. He grabbed the bottom railing and pulled himself up and over. Selina then took a running start and kicked off the wall to grab the handrailing and vault over; it all looked like it was one swift, smooth motion.

"Show off," Jason muttered as she took point again up the fire escape. They came to the final landing of the escape, but, just like in the blueprints Selina had been studying, the fire escape didn't reach the top. Selina made a gesture for him to spin around; when he did, she unzipped the bag and pulled out a grappling hook. Jason stood back as she swung the hook in a circle and then swung it over the edge of the building. After scaling the side and pulling themselves onto the roof, they swiftly sprinted on the rock covered roof over to the glass pane that was above the diamond.

Jason set up the lowering apparatus, a crane-like device that he had practiced with several times over the past couple of days. He was pretty good at it, setting new records with each attempt. He jokingly thought about advertising his very specific ability. It was a myriad of pullies, levers, and a crank; apparently, it would help lower Selina and make it easier to support her weight. He had made light of that fact with a joke earlier; Selina had slapped the back of his head—a spot that was slowly becoming sore with each offence.

While Jason was preparing the device, Selina was making her entrance. First, she opened up her palm with her claws on it, created a small hole in the glass, and caught the glass with her claws as it fell through. Then she worked on a second, three-foot diameter hole. She cut her way through the glass and then stuck her hand in the smaller hole to keep the large glass cutout from falling through. She set the glass pieces aside and then strapped on the harness.

"So, why am I the one hauling you down there again?" Jason asked as he used a small wrench to finish assembling the device. "You could just send me; I'm lighter and smaller."

"Because I know that I won't mess up," Selina retorted. "Remember to keep an eye on the crank even if you lock it. I don't want to crash into the diamond case."

"Fine," He mumbled as she used her phone to turn off the cameras inside and the sensors on the box.

She finished buckling in the last bit of the black harness, hooked it to the end of the device, and turned back to him, "You done yet?"

Jason gave a thumbs up, "Yep."

Selina touched a hand to where her ear was and spoke, "You hear me?" The voice came through a small device planted in his ear.

"Unfortunately," Jason replied with a smirk. Then signaled for her that he was ready for her to start.

"If you drop me, I'm going to haunt you," Selina said seriously as she started her descent. At first, she went down as if she were propelling down the face of a cliff, but, once she was dangling in the air, she shifted so that she was being lowered like a puppet on strings. Meanwhile, Jason was slowly cranking the apparatus; it helped immensely that he didn't have to lug her down. Still, it was giving his arms a bit of a workout.

"Alright, stop," Selina came to a halt right above the diamond casing. Jason clicked the crank to lock into place, so he wouldn't have to keep his hands on it.

She quickly got to work. With the sensors in the glass disabled, she was able to put her claws to use again and carve out a small hole. As she did, there was a second where she applied the pressure a bit too hard and the glass cracked outside the circle she was carving. Suddenly, a buzz came from where she stashed her phone. As quickly as it started buzzing, it stopped. That could only mean one thing.

"Uh oh."

"What's uh oh?" Jason asked quickly.

"Nothing," Selina grumbled in annoyance; she would have to have a long chat with the person who sold the disabling device to her. "The silent alarm went off for a second. It's gone now. No one should have noticed; the equipment is old anyway—they'll think it was a bug. I'll try and hurry up anyway."

"Well, that's a relief."

* * *

Another night was over. Bruce was driving back through the Narrows headed towards the manor. Yet another cache had been visited by the "Batman"—Bruce didn't know how to feel about that name—and the contents and those guarding it were now in the hands of the GCPD. Now that it was nearing daybreak, there was little he could do. Alfred would probably insist on sleep being the next part of his agenda. Bruce knew he didn't feel tired enough for that; there was still plenty to do in terms of updating equipment.

"Hmm—that's strange," Alfred muttered into the mouth piece.

"What?" He asked quickly; a part of him wished the night wasn't over.

"Well, it seems that the Gotham museum's silent alarm went off, but it was only for a second," Alfred said. "It must have been a glitch."

"Or—"

"Yes," Alfred said sarcastically. "Or it could be a break in. I leave it to your discretion to decide which is which—though I can already imagine your answer."

"Well, while I'm in the neighborhood," Bruce turned the steering wheel and turned down the street that lead to the Gotham museum. Unlike other cities, Gotham did seem to sleep at night. That was partially because any sane citizen feared whatever potential criminal was in the shadows. The streets were often completely abandoned because of it. He hoped one day to make it safe enough to walk down again.

He parked in an empty alley and turned the engine off. He decided to ascend a building opposite of the museum. He pulled out a highly powered night scope and looked through the lens. As he suspected, a small figure was standing near the skylight that now had a gaping hole in it. Bruce crouched down and planned out his attack. One thief on the roof, probably one more below since there seemed to be a crane of some sort on the roof. Zooming in with his scope, he saw that there were no visible weapons on the one thief. It was almost too easy. Bruce started to plan out his attack when he noticed something.

The person in black seemed relatively small. If Bruce were to guess from his distance, he would calculate the height to be under five feet. That either meant he was an incredibly short man or a child, which would raise only more questions. Either way, he knew he couldn't use the force he would on a normal sized man. He would have to be cautious, be careful not to cause trauma to the thief. Gliding in and slamming him wouldn't be the best tactic. Bruce packed up his gear and got ready to confront the thief stealthily.

* * *

"Come on," Jason hissed into the mic. "Hurry up."

"You can feel free to come down and do it yourself," Selina huffed as she continued to cautiously cut open the glass. If the device had failed before with a crack, it might do it again. Better to be safe than have the alarms go off.

She continued to cut through while Jason nodded his head side to side to keep his attention off of how little sleep he had gotten earlier that night. Finally, Selina cut through the glass and caught the disk before it dropped inside. She slowly reached her hand in and plucked the diamond from its place. A smile spread across her face as she held it; there was nothing quite like holding a multimillion-dollar gem in her hand.

"Got it!" Selina hissed as she stuffed the diamond in a pocket on her torso. "Pull me back up!"

Jason quickly moved his hand to crank her back up. Suddenly, he felt the black mask he was wearing whipped off his head. In a moment of shock, he simply touched his face to find skin. He swallowed dryly and, in a panic, whirled around. His eyes bulged as he caught sight of the vigilante, clad in blackness like the night he had seen him. Jason remained stone still. He expected to be suddenly attacked, like a monster would in a horror movie, but several seconds of quiet passed over them. The vigilante didn't say anything as he looked from Jason to the crane and finally over the edge to where Selina was still waiting for the redhead to pull her back up. He seemed to be sizing up their scheme.

"Kid? Kid? Jason, you better answer me!" The hiss came through his earpiece. Jason ignored it; he was too focused on the guy in front of him.

"This is a strange place to go spelunking," that was all the vigilante said. A joke? No, it couldn't be; he had a perpetual scowl that seemed to be built into his mask. It seemed like more of a disapproving statement more than anything.

The shadow stared at him again, and Jason stumbled back away from the hole in the skylight. As he walked backwards away from the vigilante, his bag tripped him up and caused him to splay onto his back and spill the contents. He quickly sat back up but didn't dare move to stand as the vigilante approached. He couldn't help but feel absolutely terrified. His mind flashed back to the mugger he saw get his face smashed into the wall. Was that going to happen to him? If he looked at the example of Anarky, it didn't seem like the Bat cared all that much about the age of a person. He was probably going to get the same treatment no matter what.

He did the only thing he thought to do: talk.

"Oh, hey, what are you doing up here?" Jay asked casually. "I was just—" he looked over the machinery to see how he could spin it. "Well it doesn't matter, uh, how did you get up here?" Jason's hand reached behind him to grab a small wrench.

Selina stopped calling for Jason through the earpiece. Something was horribly wrong. It didn't feel like the kid ditched her; it just seemed like he had simply been incapacitated. Either way, she needed to get out. She cursed, grabbed the line, unhooked the harness, and proceeded to pull herself up the line.

"Like, we're here for window repair, and cleaning," Jason was just spouting nonsense at this point; he just needed to keep talking.

Bruce was taken aback by the sudden talkativeness of the boy. It was chattery, nervous, confusing, and almost amusing, but there was an ulterior motive. He saw the boy's hand slowly moving behind his back. There it was.

Jason whipped the small wrench forward, propelling the metal object at him. The vigilante merely leaned to the right and avoided the wrench. Jason paled as his plan—however simple it was—failed in an instant. The vigilante's gaze turned back towards him; he frowned, which baffled Jason because he thought the base frown couldn't deepen. Jason grimaced, but decided not to shrink back.

"Oops, it slipped," He laughed nervously, the smartass nature seemed to peak out even though he knew he was probably going to die. As fear gripped his heart, Jason tried to scramble to his feet and book it away from the vigilante. He flinched as the shadow's hand moved forward and grabbed the collar of his shirt. He knew he was done for.

A familiar CRACK went through the air and the Bat's hand was snatched backwards as it released the collar. Jason looked past the vigilante to see Selina holding the other end of her whip.

"Really, you had one job, lookout," Selina chided nonchalantly before moving into her next action.

She pulled back and the vigilante was off balance for a second as he stumbled back. In a second, he regained footing, wrapped his hand around the whip and pulled. Selina was thrown by the sudden force of the pull but quickly turned the force into a roll as she went past the vigilante and ended up crouched in front of Jason.

"This is no time to fanboy, kid," She pulled the diamond out of her pocket and shoved the diamond into his hands. "Get out of here while I handle the Bat guy. Escape plan G!"

Without further delay, Jason scrambled to his feet and raced off towards the way they had come. The vigilante immediately turned away to chase after the young man with the stolen property, but the whip snapped and cut some of the exposed skin on his face.

"Sorry, but I'll be preoccupying your time," Selina winked.

That voice: despite slight changes, she sounded just like she did ten years ago. Bruce recognized her instantly even with the mask and darkness obscuring her face. It was Selina. Bruce felt a confusing swell of emotions. He was absolutely ecstatic to see her again after all the years away; he just wished that the circumstances were better. He doubted she even recognized him. The last thing he wanted to do was fight her. He thought about escaping after the kid again but was quickly routed when Selina advanced. He couldn't allow himself to hurt her, but he wasn't going to let her wound him either.

Jason went to the side of the building where the rope was situated. He frowned as he realized that the rope and hook were on the ground below—the vigilante no doubt had attempted to block their only escape—leaving a large drop from where he was to the platform. The platform was narrow, and he wouldn't be able to distribute the force with a roll. He would be lucky if he didn't accidentally hit the railing. Jason looked back to where Selina was fighting the vigilante; he wasn't going to let himself to get caught. In a way, he felt empowered by the fact that he knew that she was counting on him to escape. He inhaled briefly then jumped off of the top of the building. He landed with a loud THUD. He groaned a little at the harsh landing, and his knees almost went over his head as he steadied his landing. After a brief moment of collection, he headed down the escape and went into the alley, disappearing into the night.

Selina couldn't help but wonder what this guy's major malfunction was; for starters, he was dressed in a ridiculous costume. She had heard that the media was calling him "Batman" now—a name that Jason hadn't taken to yet, instead opting for "the vigilante in black"—but she never expected him to dress the part cape and all. Well, maybe that wasn't the most shocking thing in Gotham. What surprised her even more was the fact that he actually seemed to understand how to fight. There was also a strange feeling that she got from their whole encounter: he was going easy on her. It was a gut feeling.

"What, going soft?" When he didn't respond, she added. "Not much of a wordsmith, are you."

She went over what Jason had told her about him during one of her inquires. Perhaps the knowledge about the vigilante would actually help her. She knew that he had a sort of grapple as well as a sort of throwing knife or shuriken. She would have to be careful about that. He also apparently could glide with the cape he had. Glide: she would kill to be able to glide through the night. She almost scoffed at the thought; it seemed absolutely outlandish. Outlandish as it was, there he was standing in front of her. Who the hell was this guy?

Bruce knew that Selina had always had her criminal ties. He knew that she was even a thief at heart; he had been tracking her progress for the past several months. Why did it have to be here that they met again? Another question grabbed at his attention. Would he turn her in? Could he even bring himself to do that? The hardened vigilante part of him knew that he should fight all crime regardless of what personal biases he possessed. That was the whole reason for the mask: to make a different persona and distance himself from Bruce Wayne. The other side knew that he would never forgive himself if he simply abandoned her fate to black-and-white morality and turned her in. While he was slightly distracted by the notion, she got a scratch in across the cheek with her claws. He couldn't focus on that now; he just needed to fight.

Selina kicked at him with a side kick. He caught her right foot in his hands. Suddenly, there was a flash of familiarity. Selina was almost thrown by the sudden acquainted feeling. She'd fought him before; the moves seemed styled like someone that she knew. The moment was lost when her foot was twisted clockwise. Using the momentum, she kicked her left leg up and into his jaw. The Bat recoiled for a moment, and she landed on her feet.

Selina took the chance to run. Jason would be far enough at this point that the vigilante wouldn't be able to track him. Now she just needed to escape. This time though, it was her arm that was caught by a line. Instead of a whip, there was a sort of grappling hook wrapped around her arm holding her from escaping. The feeling of déjà vu returned, but this time, she knew exactly where it was from. Ten years ago: she was about to rip a man's face off with her jagged claw-knives when she was stopped by a device from a certain billionaire.

"No way," Selina breathed as she realized exactly who was underneath that cowl. Her lip thinned into a frown as anger swelled up in her. "Ok, it's personal now."

Bruce didn't hear the words she muttered to herself, but he immediately recognized the change in her aggression. Her stance changed and suddenly, she kicked her leg over the taut wire and forced it to the ground. This time, he didn't falter forward, but she took an opportunity to quickly pry the device from her arm. The banter that she previously had been spouting disappeared in a second, and she viciously advanced with her claws first.

She wasn't going to kill him; she wasn't even trying that hard to wound him. She just wanted him to know to back off. Even if it was just in her mind, even if he didn't know it was her, she needed to establish something of a boundary. He couldn't just barge in and screw up her heist! She felt the need to be able to stand toe to toe with the man who had ripped her heart out ten years ago.

Selina's wild attacks almost overwhelmed Bruce. He spent most of his time blocking her oncoming swings and kicks. He knew he could probably end it sooner. A good punch to the jaw would have probably knocked her unconscious, and to anyone else he would have done in at the very beginning. He still couldn't hurt her, so he bided his time until he could defuse it in the least violent and painless way possible. Then he saw his opening. She took another wild punch at him. He caught the hand. His other hand grabbed her upper arm. She was thrown over his shoulder and landed on her back on the concrete of the roof. Her anger had gotten the best of her; she was losing her composure fast.

"Stand down," the vigilante spoke the words, as she rolled to her feet. He was using a voice changer but there were still hints of his voice in there. That infuriated her even more, as if she wouldn't have noticed his voice. What made her even more livid was that she knew he was right. As much as she wanted to continue sparring to relieve the anger in her, Selina knew she couldn't keep it up for much longer. Her breathing was becoming ragged and her body felt sore. She needed to end it now.

Selina took in their surrounding and decided to use it to her advantage. She pushed him back towards the skylight with several quick jabs that he backed up to avoid. When he was in place, she used her whip for a final time. She quickly snapped it around her head and wrapped it around his leg. She pulled hard and staggered his stance. She needed a final move to complete her action. She continued to pull hard and brought up her leg to kick him.

"See ya, Bruce," She growled quickly.

"Selina, I—"

He didn't get to say anything else as Selina kicked him through the hole in the skylight. He tried to grab at the sides of the glass, but they gave way in an instant. There was a moment of panic as she realized what she just did—what if the kid had been exaggerating for kicks? Selina sighed as she looked over the edge to see the cape billow open and softened the fall as he landed right next to the empty stand.

"So, you do glide," Selina scoffed. She pulled out her phone in a flash and disabled her device.

Wailing went through the museum as the alarms were triggered and the pressure plates beneath his feet went off. Bruce grit his teeth; this was an inconvenience. He glanced over to the security cameras on the wall. If anyone had doubted his existence before, they wouldn't now. He used his grappling hook to pull himself up through the hole he had gone through. When he emerged from the museum, she was gone.

Bruce sighed.

* * *

Edward Nygma was sitting at a desk in some Godforsaken cave harbored in one of the most turbulent countries in the world. The arid breeze of Bialya never made its way into the cave where the rebels were hold up. That was probably the most annoying part of his job. The dry heat would burn during the day, but the nights would be freezing cold. Either way, the air would be stagnant and suffocating, stifling any instigation for further mental stimulus. He would often complain to his 'co-workers' that his accommodations needed to be better—maybe even add an AC. They would always laugh him off and shut him back in the room. He scoffed. If that was how they treated their most valuable compatriot, then he pitied any of their grunts.

A newspaper made its way to the man resting at his desk. Hours of decoding messages had left him satisfied, full of purpose, and bored. The initial thrill of the conundrums had faded once the code had been decrypted by himself—in a week no less. He had only taken the job because the Bialyan code was said to be "impossibly encrypted." Propaganda, it was complete propaganda. He honestly wasn't needed anymore, but the gunman outside his door insisted otherwise. He was fine though; there was nothing else in the world that interested him. The only reason he had the paper was strictly for sentimentality reasons and a bit of homesickness. The newspaper was also, the only thing he demanded each week from the rebels—how they got it he never asked.

The paper was from the Gotham Gazette, a paltry excuse for a newspaper; he had caught a plethora of typos and misprints over his time reading—all of which he corrected in his spare time with his green pen. Despite the general ineptness of the paper, he still read it to keep up with the times. He caught sight of the main headline of the paper.

"Oswald's free?" He asked himself as he read through the lines. He sighed at the mention of his old friend, "Well good for him."

A thought sparked in his mind; maybe he could finally return. He immediately dismissed it. He would just be tied up in another gang war. He would follow Oswald through his many mood swings, tirades, and emotionally fueled decisions. A headache sprung up from simply thinking about it. No, it wasn't worth it to simply fall into the job of being someone's advisor or confidant. The Riddler was better than that; he needed a challenge.

Edward finished the crossword in five minutes; the only things that gave him slight hesitation were the pop-culture references and names. He continued, bored, until he came across an article that intrigued him. It was one about the new vigilante that had started to pop up around town and was apparently doing damage to Oswald's business. He read it slightly intrigued; he didn't much care about this figure. He simply caused trouble as it seemed most people did in Gotham. He wasn't fully engaged in the article until a single sentence brought him in:

"_The sheer multitude of weapon caches uncovered with the help of the evidence proves that this could have only been solved by the world's greatest detective."_

"What?" A hardy laugh escaped his lips, "World's greatest detective!" He announced it like he was a sports caster. The next one was said with disbelief, "World's greatest detective? Those people wouldn't know a detective from a pharmacist." He paused for a moment, then growled pensively. "World's greatest detective." He found his teeth grit as he came to a stand and shouted with disbelief. "World's _greatest detective_!" That caused the guard outside his door to glance inside out of curiosity, shrug, and return to his duty.

Detectives had wit and brains; they pieced together the hardest of puzzles with minimal clues—a reason he had always wanted to work besides them when he was younger. This "detective"—brute more like—had simply found a couple of weapons stashes, smashed a couple of faces in, and suddenly he was the "world's best!" Oh, how low their standards had fallen.

Edward circled the phrase, highlighting it. He suddenly had the need to pace around the room. He started to do so, tapping his chin and fidgeting as he did. He caught himself. No, he wasn't going to—well of course he was. The people of Gotham were imbecilic if they believed this dreck. No, they were beyond moronic—he was surprised they even had brain function. They had forgotten what real intelligence looked like. Maybe he could show them. Yes, he would show them. He would humiliate the fraud in the worst way possible: reveal the holes in the "detective's" logic, defeat him in the ring of mystery.

He took his green pen and added a new correction to the paper, so it read: "_World's greatest detective?"_

* * *

**I was wondering if I should swap around some of the character tags with each chapter. I am using a lot of characters for each new chapter, but maybe I could indicate who each new chapter is about with the character tags. Also, I might update the description soon, because I feel like it needs to be better.**

**Thank you for your reviews, follows, favs, they give me lifeblood and motivate me to write! Thank you!**


	8. Old Friends

8\. Old Friends

"Finally caught the sonuva bitch on camera, and this time, he's showing his true colors," Gordon had barely stepped one foot into the GCPD before Bullock rounded a corner and held out a file to him.

"Come on, Bullock, I haven't even gotten coffee yet," Gordon took the file—defiantly labeled 'the Ghost'—and opened it up. "Stealing the Tigress Diamond," he frowned a little, "doesn't seem like his MO."

"Come on, Jim, have a little faith," Harvey scoffed. "I have video evidence of him standing by the empty case. We found one of his devices on the camera system and have a lowering crane on the roof. He used an advanced device to cut into the glass of the case and skylight. Perfect crime. Idiot just got caught when the security came back on."

"Or it's someone else," Gordon suggested.

"No one else is on the tape!" Bullock argued.

"Your forgetting that there was a crane on the roof and a regular roped grappling hook on the ground," Gordon snapped shut the file and handed it back to the detective, "but our vigilante in black uses an air-powered grappling hook to get on rooftops."

"So, what are you sayin'," Bullock grumbled.

"I'm saying that the perp is someone not caught on camera," Gordon shrugged. Bullock was excited. Gordon didn't want to step on his moment, but he needed to set the record straight.

"So, you're saying that the real perp is someone with some advanced technology, who steals expensive artifacts, has not been caught on tape, and cuts perfect circular holes in glass." Harvey started to realize what Gordon was getting at as he kept talking.

"Who does that sound like?" Gordon questioned with a bit of a smile. "Or, do you need a whip at the scene for proof?"

Harvey sighed, "Yeah, I'll get on it. Stop smiling," He then turned to the floor. "Harper! Put out a BOLO for Selina Kyle. She's at it again! We'll go hit up some of her old hideouts once we get a warrant!"

"Thank you, Harvey," Gordon disappeared into his office.

* * *

Selina found herself in the early morning going to a place that she had often gone to sort out her thoughts. The graveyard felt surprisingly fresh due to the soft, early morning summer breeze. It was a place that she had visited many times, mostly during the first few months after Bruce had left. She, now dressed out of her uniform and into more civilian clothing, was standing in front of a lone grave. The epitaph,_ Tabitha "Tigress" Galavan: Fierce Friend and Dedicated Ally,_ was inscribed on the stone slab.

"Oh Tabby, I've got a lot of problems to sort out today," she shook her head.

Her main problem came to mind, and she scoffed.

Bruce was the vigilante. That made too much sense. It was so believable that it felt like a smack her between her eyes. She didn't doubt it for a second. This persona, vigilante, dark figure, Batman, whatever the hell he wanted to call it, was his new scheme to impact Gotham. It was his new identity, his secret. He would probably even believe it was the true him or something. He had made that clear with his entrance onto the Gotham stage. He had been here, back, for months before he officially appeared as Bruce Wayne. Why hadn't he talked to her?

What had happened to him? The sympathy in the question made her sick. Why should she care? Bruce always had one dumb reason or another to keep her at arm's length. He had some plan or "deep" brooding reason he couldn't just do normal things and be an ordinary person. It was completely in character for what he was doing. She didn't know why she bothered to care. It wasn't like Bruce was a young boy or teenager anymore, and it wasn't like he hadn't done crazy things before. It just seemed strange that he didn't even contact her; he was hiding.

Why?

"Selina," she turned as she heard a voice. She had to take a moment as she was surprised to find Barbara Kean standing there. Kean had certainly reigned herself in over the past couple of years. With how many probational rules the woman was under, she had to push away her more self-destructive tendencies. She was wearing more modest clothing than in her club owning days and her hair was now a bright, stark red. Behind her, she escorted a young girl, Barbara Lee; Selina internal smiled—only Barbara would name her child after herself.

"Barbara," Selina nodded as the other woman approached. "Good to see you."

"Good to see you too," Barbara spoke with such a calm and gentle tone that it seemed rather alien. She turned to her daughter and asked, "You remember Selina, right?"

Barbara Lee scanned her face and nodded slowly. Selina was glad the young girl remembered her from their sparse meetings years ago. She often mused about the tossing and turning it would cause Gordon if he knew his daughter was talking to a wanted woman.

Selina smiled a bit, "I remember when you were only yay high," she held her hand up at an arbitrary point. "You've grown a lot." She almost groaned at how disjointed the sentence felt coming out of her mouth. She suddenly felt old.

Barbara Lee gave Selina a strange look, "You know I'm, like, ten, right? You don't have to talk to me like that."

"Er—right," Selina should have known that the apple didn't fall too far from the tree. She knew kids were often smarter than they appeared, but she still held the stereotype that the kids who weren't on the street were completely innocent. Barbara Lee was proving to have wits and attitude abound.

"Barbie," Barbara Kean turned to the younger. "You can go wait in the car if you want. I'm going to talk to Selina, alright?"

"Yeah," Barbara Lee nodded quickly. She then looked between the two like there was something suspicious going on and continued, "I think I'll do that." She left her mother's side and headed back towards the road.

Neither of them spoke as Barbara sidled up next to Selina and gazed down at the grave of their fallen ally. They stood there for a moment as if somehow communing with her spirit. Despite everything that had happened to them, Selina still felt that sense of comradery with Tabitha and Barbara. Even though at their worst Tabby could be stubbornly difficult and Barbara a complete nutjob, she had enjoyed her time with them. When the profits got good, they got real good. When they were at their best and Selina at her most naïve, she would have called them her sisters in crime. It was never to be. Tabby died, and Barbara became domesticated—though that was probably for the best. It was just Selina alone, just like it had been in the beginning.

Finally, Barbara spoke, "I'm assuming it isn't a coincidence that the Tigress Diamond disappeared, and you are here now at Tabby's grave."

Selina shrugged, "I figured if it was going to be my last score in Gotham, it should be in her namesake."

"Mind if I see?" Barbara asked curiously.

"Don't have it on hand; my partner has it if he didn't mess up."

"He? Partner?" Barbara asked teasingly—perhaps she had finally gotten over Bruce.

"Yeah, don't get any ideas," Selina smiled a bit. "He's barely thirteen. I thought I could give him a chance at helping me out. He's actually rather resourceful."

"So, you're inducting children into the criminal lifestyle?" Barbara mockingly gasped. "If I were a better citizen, I'd inform a police officer."

"If you were a better citizen, we wouldn't be talking. Besides, he broke into my place. If anything, I saved him. He's been good though. His reward is my apartment when I'm gone."

Barbara's face became slightly saddened, "So, you're skipping town again?"

Selina had to pause. She had thought she would. Originally, she had planned to slap the apartment keys into the kid's hands, turn tail, and be off somewhere forgetting about her troubles. It didn't seem possible anymore. There was that attraction that sucked her back into Gotham's problems yet again. Every time she thought she was done with the smog-filled skies and barren cityscape, it pulled her right back in with some idiotic feeling of home or loyalty. How she wished she could just release herself from whatever responsibilities she felt and just leave; she knew that was never going to happen. The city just wouldn't let her.

"Yeah, maybe, I'm not sure anymore."

"Boy problems?" Barbara asked almost with a sense of knowing.

"Is it ever anything else?" Selina sighed.

"Yes, thirteen-year-olds are annoying," Barbara joked.

"I wish it was that simple," She shook her head. "Let's just say that I learned something about him—the guy—that I didn't expect."

She lifted an eyebrow, "A bad thing?"

"I'm not sure."

"Then," the redhead tilted her head to the side, "some sort of darkness."

"Yeah, something like that," Selina answered quickly.

"Well, Kat, take it from me," Barbara shrugged, "a little darkness is good for a man. It helps them in whatever field he's working, and it's fascinating to watch him work. But it's not safe for the people around him; they only get damaged. They're collateral. To you, he's going to seem like the one most interestingly complicated people on the planet, someone who you couldn't dare to live without. When you get too close, you're going to be hurt worse than anything else."

It almost shocked Selina how well-versed she seemed in the subject, "Yeah, but I don't think I can let him get away that easy."

"I'm not saying that," Barbara shook her head with a smile, "part of the fun is the pursuit."

Selina spat in anger, "I'm not pursuing him. I just want answers."

"Why he left and all that," Barbara said. "I'd want answers too."

Selina blinked, she hadn't been using his name on purpose, but Barbara seemed to see right through it.

"But," Barbara drew out the word, "are you sure that's all you want?"

Was it? Could she really let him go finally after all they had been through? She wanted to say "hell yeah" and walk away from him. Again, it was like the city; she couldn't. She couldn't walk away, but Bruce did. He left her after one of the most traumatic years in her life, at a time when she thought that she had finally, finally reached the light at the end of the tunnel. He had walked away without a second thought. Why should she do any less?

"Yeah," She huffed. "I want answers, and that's it."

* * *

There had again been radio silence after Bruce engaged the thieves on the roof of the museum. There were a good five minutes of silence; then the alarm in the museum went off again. For a moment, there was a bit of concern, but when Alfred went to contact him, he was met with a sharp, "I'm fine."

Bruce refused to talk about the incident. He had entered the cave with a brusquer than usual attitude and brushed by Alfred. The butler had seen the distress and was able to immediately pinpoint the tension. It was Selina; he had gotten that much out of him. It hadn't taken a genius-level intellect for Alfred to figure out the rest. Obviously, the break-in had been one of Ms. Kyle's nightly exploits.

Despite their differences in the past, Alfred had come to miss the little minx. She always had a presence about her that kept Bruce and himself grounded in reality. She had talked to him shortly after Bruce had left, but he hadn't seen her in almost nine years. Then, it was just her in the news. The cat burglar: of course, she has never been caught, not even on camera, but her signature was evident. So evident, that the police eventually ended up running her out of town. It was obvious that they would eventually cross paths again, but Alfred had hoped it wouldn't be on a rooftop. Alfred decided to allow the Wayne heir a bit of time to brood.

However, once the evening came again, Alfred checked up Bruce. When he entered the cave, he expected him to be awake and was not disappointed as he found him. However, Alfred had also assumed that he would be steeped in his work or at his computer frantically searching articles with Selina in them. Instead, the butler was pleasantly surprised to find him sitting on the training pad out of costume and simply meditating. However, that didn't mean there wasn't any work taking place. The computer was on, and there was a map of Gotham's streets on the screen. On one street, there was a red dot, but it wasn't moving.

"One of the trackers?" Alfred asked.

"Yes," Bruce cracked open an eye.

"Doesn't seem like their doin' much." Alfred set down the tea tray he had been carrying. "Are you sure it wasn't simply found and discarded?"

"It's a possibility, but I don't think that's the case." Bruce stood and approached the computer. "The street is popular with the homeless. It's more likely that someone stopped to sleep."

"I'm assuming this is from last night's brawl at the museum. Did you tag her?"

Bruce was silent as he took a cup of tea. He gave Alfred the "drop it" vibe.

"So, what are we to do with Ms. Kyle?" Perhaps it was because Bruce was purposefully avoiding the subject, but Alfred wanted to know what would become of Bruce's former friend.

There was a long pause before Bruce spoke, "I'm not sure, Alfred."

"Understandable," Alfred nodded, "but, if you're going to face her again, it may be better to do so out of tactical armor."

Bruce was silent again, "I don't know, maybe it's for the best if we don't meet again. She knows who I am."

"I didn't think the disguise would hold up to her scrutiny, but I don't see why that's any reason not to go talk to her."

"She's infuriated, Alfred. You should have seen the way she fought me when she knew. I'm the last person she would want to see right now," Bruce shook his head.

"Well, yes, so it would seem," Alfred agreed. "I got that notion over one of her many talks with me. She was absolutely furious. If anything, she angry because she felt you never gave her closure—the letter wasn't a sufficient goodbye. In all honesty, while I know why you had to go, you couldn't have picked a worse time in her life to simply leave. She needs some form of closure."

"It would just take time away from the things I need to focus on," Bruce reverted to an old argument. "There's no reason to complicate things now. Gotham is a priority. I know I can't let her get away with theft. So, I'll simply stick to the law right now: no emotional input."

"I understand your reasoning," Alfred sighed, "but let's entertain the reality for when you're going to encounter her again. Your mind will be cluttered, whether you like it or not, and she'll get away. Soon someone will take notice how one particular thief seems to elude your grasp. They'll either think you're accomplices or, worse, someone will realize your relationship and use it against you. That seems more complicated than simply talking and sorting things out. Maybe you can even persuade her out of her lifestyle and the diamond. If you keep putting it off and act like there was nothing between you, she will only resent you for it."

The computer pinged and they both looked up to see the dot moving down the street. Alfred turned to make a comment but noticed that Bruce had disappeared. In a second, he had his tactical gear on and was ready for another night on patrol.

"Where are you going now?" Alfred asked.

He pulled the cowl over his head, "I have to go follow up on a lead."

* * *

It hadn't taken long for Ed to find Oswald's base of operation. He had gotten to Gotham quickly by using a preplanned escape route, calling in a few favors, and flashing some green. He was experiencing irritability from his twelve-hour-difference-jetlag as he made his way to the streets of Gotham. After that, he had simply opened a newspaper. Oswald was never one for hiding. As Ed approached the neon sign, he couldn't help but feel a chill run down his spine—possibly from a bad memory.

The Iceberg Lounge didn't sit where the Sirens club used to be—probably because Kean now owned the building and would never in a hundred years sell to Oswald—and was now situated promptly in the Bowery. He took a moment to analyze the architecture of the building. It was an amalgamation of Neogothic architecture with a hint of classic Bowery modernity and maybe a bit of Deco influence in the patterns of the inside wall as visible from the outside. It was highlighted by the unmissable, gaudy neon sign which presented the name of the lounge in all its glaring glory.

As he approached, a buzzing question pushed its way to the forefront of his mind.

Why did he find himself at Oswald's door yet again?

Well, if he were being entirely honest, it was to see an old friend. He hadn't seen Oswald in years; he hadn't even talked to him since swearing an oath of brotherhood with the man. Now he was curious about how his friend had changed. Prison could change a man. Ed knew that better than most. However, there was more than simple fraternization that drove his want for a meeting. Money was on the agenda. Funds were a hard thing to accrue. Edward knew that when something grabbed his attention the money tended to fly from his fingers as he pursued his new interest. That was often why he found himself doing small jobs while he was abroad. Oswald was no stranger to large sums of cash, especially the millions that he stored in a Swiss bank. Despite the recent interferences from the "Bat", Oswald was still one of the richest men in Gotham. Best try him before some random ruffians or draw attention to himself by robbing a bank.

He sighed, shoved his hands into his green suit pockets, and walked towards door. He didn't even bother knocking, instead, pushing the door's handle. He was surprised when it gave way and opened up to the grand entrance of the club, which had a large staircase leading to the second floor. The door closed behind him, and he realized the two ape-men-in-suits behind him.

"Mr. Cobblepot's been waiting for you," One of them grunted in a typical Gotham accent, an almost nostalgic sound.

Edward bypassed the typical "how" question. Oswald knew everything, of course. The bodyguard gestured to the grand staircase, and Edward followed with his eyes. There, at the top of the stairs, stood a man he hadn't seen in years.

Oswald appeared in his usual, ostentatious attire with the new addition of a top hat, perhaps to make the man seem taller. He was obviously going for a classier look and had a monocle over his "bad eye." The monocle hid the fact that the glass eye didn't focus on anything. He was a lot rounder than the stick figure Ed was used to seeing—perhaps a factor of age and slowing metabolism. (Were they really that old?) In contrast, Edward felt like he hadn't changed at all. Edward started to smile as he saw his old friend.

"Prison food must have been better than at Arkham," Edward attempted to joke. He suddenly reeled back as he caught the incensed look on the other man's face.

"I have not received one phone call," Oswald said immediately as he hobbled down the stairs towards Ed. "Not one note, not one letter, not a postcard, not a telegram, or—God forbid—some beatboxers with a riddle. Now, you just waltz in and dare to think that you can be in the presence of Gotham's most notorious crime lord?"

"Hello, Oswald," Ed nodded knowing the long-winded rant was his way of welcoming him back. He then went on to explain, "Mail was tight at the asylum. They always assumed I would use some sort of code to alert compatriots of mine."

"And after your daring escape?" Oswald was demanding, like a mother who was confronting a teenager that had been out past curfew. "I didn't hear from you after that either. Not a single peep!" He slammed his fist on the railing.

"I didn't want the authorities to suddenly become suspicious of you," Ed almost felt guilty excusing it. "If they found you conspiring with an escaped convict, it might have messed with your 'good behavior streak.'"

"As if you didn't know that I could bribe my way into their good graces," Oswald sneered. "Please, give me more excuses, Ed."

Ed brought his eyebrows together as he watched crime lord come to a stop in front of him, "What's this really about, Oswald?"

Oswald ground his teeth before questioning slowly, "Why did you leave? I thought we were destined to stay in this city; we made a pact, became brothers." He sounded almost choked up.

Ed shrugged, "After the thirteenth petition to get me in the electric chair for what happened at Haven, I decided I needed to leave for a while. There were mysteries to be solved elsewhere. It had nothing to do with anything else or you. I'm hoping to stay for a long tim—"

Suddenly, Ed was wrapped in an ironclad hug. He let out a sigh. Oswald and his emotions. For a moment there was a flicker of fear that the embrace was purely for closing the distance; he almost anticipated a cold dagger to be shoved in his back. There was none. Ed stiffly patted his back.

"It's good to see you too, Oswald," Ed said, and the shorter man let go.

"Likewise," He seemed to have a new, forgiving, friendly air about him. He then turned, made a gesture, and escorted Ed up the stairs. "So, what new mystery brings you? You're not one for sentimentality."

Ed nodded his head forward, right to business. Oswald was guarding himself, "Well, today I will allow some sentiment." Oswald looked back a little surprised, but Ed went on. "However, personal desire is not the only reason I came here today." Ed pulled out the folded-up newspaper from his coat pocket and handed it to Oswald. "I've heard that you've been dealing with a bat infestation."

"Understatement of the century!" Oswald growled. "It seems he's dead set on ruining me!"

The Penguin noted the edits that Ed had done. They were childish. There were multiple circles around the word "Batman" which was replaced with the words "idiot" "fraud" among other name-calling insulting his intelligence. Oswald rolled his eyes as he stumbled upon the phrase, "_World's greatest detective_?"

"So, you don't like being upstaged," Oswald finally understood why he came back.

"Upstaged?" A flicker of annoyance entered the Riddler's eye. "Only in the public mind! Only in their fragile collective consciousness am I even comparable to that brutish vigilante." Ed threw his hands up into the air.

They came to the VIP section of the empty lounge. A doorman opened the door with a quick address to both of them. They both took seats in plush, crimson loveseats across from each other with a glass table dividing them. Oswald snapped and the doorman disappeared out of the room.

"So," Oswald sat forward in his seat. "What are you planning exactly?"

Edward took a similar position as he sat up, "Nothing that will interfere with your business, I assure you."

Oswald scrutinized him for a moment, "Let me decide whether it will interfere. You just talk."

"I'm planning a duel of sorts. One of wit, cunning, and intellectual riddle solving!" Edward practically announced.

"A duel?" The Penguin scoffed. "Forgive me, Ed, but you're not the most physically intimidating person I know. What's stopping him from simply learning of your location and punching you square in the face? He has a tendency for figuring out where to find all of my hidden weapons caches."

"Well, that's part of it. If he is to prove that he is an intellectually superior detective, he's going to have to deduce that we're even having a duel. Hell, he'd have to figure out I'm even here."

"Sounds interesting," Oswald said with a hint of confusion. Subtlety was never Ed's style, and diverging from it now meant that he had bigger plans.

"It's a race against the clock: The Batman vs. The Riddler! I have until he figures out what I'm doing and where I am, and he has until I reveal him for the fraud he is. I'm going to reason who he is behind the mask, and I'm not going to have to even come face to face to do it."

Oswald paused, "Where did that idea come from? Why do you care who he is?"

"Well, under the theatrics, fear, and costume, he's just a man—an unusually lucky man—but just a man. I figure, once I learn who he is, I'll be able to reveal him to be a true intellectual fraud, someone no one need fear." He waved his hand. "After I reveal him, it'll be just a matter of hours before we or someone else takes him out."

"We?" Oswald raised an eyebrow at the suggestion.

"Well, I thought that we could do this jointly. And. . ." Ed hissed as he inhaled, "I need funding."

"You want me to fund you?" Oswald scoffed and seemed a bit disappointed. "Why would I fund you for something I could do? I could figure out who he is."

"If you could do it, you already would have."

"It's a work in progress," Oswald countered flatly.

"Really," Ed looked at him skeptically. "How do you plan on learning his identity exactly?"

"I'll kill him, then pull off that mask," Oswald waved it off. "That is if I can still recognize him with all the bullets in him. Identity is secondary; I'll kill him either way."

Edward sighed, "That's exactly the kind of brutish thinking that brought me here in the first place."

"This 'brutish thinking' has gotten me far, _Ed_," He gestured to their lavish surroundings. "Things don't always have to be needlessly complicated."

"Yes, but it seems you've met your match in the violence department," Edward reasoned. "You send guys after him, he beats them up, rinse and repeat. You need to challenge him mentally."

"I'll send him a crossword puzzle," the Penguin snapped.

"You know what I mean. You can't just take him on physically; he has proven time and again to have unprecedented endurance and vigilance. You need to outwit him, and I'm your best shot. You know that."

Oswald made a face. Edward knew he was right; Oswald knew it too. The man in green couldn't decide whether Oswald was seriously weighing his options or fighting a grudge as he often did.

The Penguin finally spoke, "How would you go about figuring out his 'identity'?"

"Psychological profiling," Ed nodded. "Just take the basic facts we know about him, add them up, and _BAM_, you have your Batman."

"That will take a lot of time and resources. What if I end up filling him with holes before you got anywhere close to figuring him out? Then, everything I gave to you would be a waste, and," Oswald leaned in, "you know I hate wasteful redundancies."

Edward sighed; Oswald wanted something, "Fine, a wager then."

Oswald's eyebrow raised past his monocle, obviously intrigued, "What's your wager?"

Ed thought for a moment, it didn't take long to figure out the only thing Oswald could want, "If you win," he paused for a moment and seriously considered what he was saying, "I'll work for you again just like in the old days."

"Alright," there was a hint of a smile, "and what do you want if you win?"

"Bragging rights and his cowl mounted on my wall and," he shifted his shoulders a bit, "five hundred thousand for my fee."

Oswald sat back for a moment. He closed his eyes. A grumble came from his mouth as he mulled over everything. The doorman reentered the room and swiftly placed down two glasses of red wine. Edward sat on the edge of the loveseat as he tried to gain any insight on what Oswald was thinking. Finally, Oswald opened his eyes and looked at Ed.

"Let me take him on in the arena of the mind," Edward implored one last time.

There was a pensive pause, then a smile spread across Oswald's face, "Alright then. I'll take your wager." The Penguin then grabbed the glass in front of him and held it aloft. "I propose a toast to the downfall of our enemy."

The Riddler followed suit as he grabbed his glass and grinned, "I second that."

Both of them clinked their glasses together, "Down with the Bat!"

* * *

Jason made his way down the street as the night started to settle in Gotham sky. After sleeping the lighter part of the day away on a hobo's bed, he found himself wandering the streets until he found the place he was looking. Jason hissed as he walked with a slight limp through the streets. He had definitely ripped something in his knee on that ill-planned landing. He hoped it wasn't going to be permanent; the last thing he needed was a bird-related nickname like the Penguin.

Escape plan G was not his favorite plan. It was the one he had hoped they wouldn't have to use.

Plan G (plan "Go-away") called for Jason to spend a couple of days on the street. Selina was a bit paranoid about Jason leading someone back to the hideout. She wanted to make sure he wasn't tailed. It was particularly stressed that he wait for a few days before coming back; Selina threatened to take the diamond, burn down the apartment, and relocate if he came back too early. Of course, Selina didn't trust Jason to keep a diamond on hand while spending time in the Narrows. She had a plan to get her hands on it without having their paths cross in the meantime.

Well, that was if Selina wasn't captured by the vigilante. His only hope that she hadn't been was that the newspapers didn't mention any burglar arrest. Then again that was a misleading notion. What if he took her for a personal interrogation? No police, no arrests, no evidence, it was enough to make Jason shiver. As much as he admired the vigilante, Jason wasn't so sure what methods the vigilante would use to distribute whatever justice he held as gospel.

Jason went down the alley that Selina had described to him. He looked for the crudely cutout brick in the wall just a little under the eyeline of an average adult. When he found the outlined brick, he pulled out his pocket knife and stuck it in the crevice. He jimmied out the hollowed brick and glanced around for someone watching. When he decided there was no one, he slipped the diamond out of his pocket and into the brick. Then he pressed the brick back into place so that the line was barely visible. Satisfied with his work, Jason quickly vacated the area.

Limping down the street, Jason thought of a new place to live for the next couple of days. There was a group of homeless people that hung around under the interstate. Another option was the group of kids who lived in an old Falcone warehouse. He just needed to pick one to blend into for a couple of days. For once, he couldn't live on his own. Great, he'd have to deal with people too.

After turning a few blocks, he got a sudden feeling like he was being watched. He put his head down instinctually. The feeling came from behind him. He entertained the thought that he could have had a tail. The thought sent a shock through him. He couldn't run; his knee was preventing him from moving faster than a stagger. A scenario played in his head. He imagined being pinned down by a group of mobsters. Maybe they saw him putting the diamond in the wall and wanted to know how he got it. Would they torture him for the information?

He shook it off. Imagining such things wasn't going to help at the moment. He needed to keep his cool and not overreact. If they gave chase, he wouldn't make it. Maybe he could lose them by turning a corner and limping as fast as he could until he reached somewhere to hide, but the turn in the street was a ways off. As the silence persisted, he heard a low almost inaudible sound. The low ambient growl, like the hum of an engine, seemed to follow him. He didn't want to turn around. He felt like turning around would alert whatever was trailing him.

He just needed to go a little more: almost there.

Suddenly, the sound stopped.

He wanted to turn around again and confirm that whatever had been following him had left. Then he felt it. There was a presence behind him. It was walking in step with him so he couldn't hear the difference in their footsteps. It was only a couple of feet away.

Jason couldn't deal with the stress anymore. Someone was right behind him; he wasn't going to take an attack from the back. He felt the need to face whatever was behind him. Maybe he could even scare off if he acted tough enough.

He swallowed, gritted his teeth, and spun around, "What the hell do you—" he stopped as he realized who was behind him. "Oh," he breathed, "hi again."

Jason was yanked off his feet.

* * *

**So, I looked at the last time I updated and realized it was over a month ago. Time went by so fast that I didn't even realize it. Some serious IRL stuff happened-school, job, family stuff-and I completely did not have enough time to write. **

**Thank you for all comments, follows, and favorites; they really help! Thank you for reading!**


	9. Midnight Snack

9\. Midnight Snack

Jason was in a state of shock and disorientation. The moment he turned around and saw the vigilante behind him, he knew he was a goner. When he was yanked up, he thought about screaming, but he couldn't find his voice. In an instant, he was practically thrown into the passenger side of a black armored car. There was a moment of blackness before the vigilante appeared on the other side and the soft glow of the car panel illuminated the dark space. Jason didn't move; he hardly breathed. He felt like he would be killed if he simply breathed wrong. The car pulled out in a flash leaving him to clutch whatever he could for support.

A million thoughts raced through his head as a cold silence penetrated the car, tank, whatever the hell it was. His hands clenched around his knees as he tried to process his surroundings. Using his periphery, he slowly glanced towards the vigilante. It was hard to see in the darkness, but he could make out that the vigilante was focusing on the road ahead. With a quick, stealthy move, Jason's hand groped across the side of the car to find a handle or a release lever. He felt his fears become even more real as he realized there was no escape.

Jason settled back into his seat. Stiff, silent, terrified, he didn't tear his eyes away from the vigilante. If he was going to get the back end of a fist, he wanted to know it was coming. Another more terrifying thought raced through him. What if the vigilante had found him putting the diamond in the wall? For a moment, the immediate terror gave way to a whole new future terror. If he survived his encounter with the Batman, Selina would be the one to end him.

Jason jumped when, the Bat held out his open palm in front of the teen, "The diamond."

A wash of relief flooded over Jason. By some wayward stroke of luck, the vigilante hadn't seen him. That was one less person who was going to kill him. Now all he had to do, was survive the encounter.

Jason summoned whatever form of confidence he still had left, "Don't have it."

"Where is it?"

"Nowhere you're going to find it," Jason retorted with a boldness he didn't realize he still possessed.

"Try me."

Jason was jolted a bit but responded quickly, "My partner has it. I don't know who she is; she recruited me off the street a couple of nights ago, gave me instructions, said she would give me a grand if I helped her out."

The kid was lying, at least in part, Bruce knew that. It was obvious to a trained eye though he might have gotten away with it on anyone else's watch.

"You're lying."

Those two words instilled the fear of God in Jason. He felt a bit panicked but kept his loyalty to Selina, "I'm not telling you anything alright! No way in hell!"

A bitter silence entered the car.

Bruce was having a harder time than usual dealing with the kid. His usual tactics weren't going to work; dangling a child off of the side of a building didn't seem productive. Besides he had known many street kids during his stay with Selina. Being difficult seemed to be a shared trait among all of them. Scaring him would only make him clam up even more. He didn't think the kid had the diamond. Bruce had secretly hoped that the kid still had it so that he wouldn't have to face Selina again. He should have known Selina well enough to predict that she wouldn't trust someone to keep something of hers for long. Still, the kid was the only tie to Selina. So, he needed to try another tactic. Instead of forcing the kid to talk, he could persuade it out of him.

"So, the wrench just happened to slip," the vigilante said flatly.

Jason blinked; it took him a moment to realize that he was talking about the previous night, "What can I say, I've got butterfingers." Was that another joke from the vigilante? Jason found himself smirk a little. His confidence started to return.

He finally started to look around. Various buttons, monitors, and switches were on the control panel of the car. The silence the penetrated the car made Jason anxious. He felt the need to have some control over the situation. He wanted to flip the interrogation around.

"How the hell did you know where to find me?" Jason asked. "Finding a street kid is like finding a needle in a haystack."

Suddenly, the Bat's hand gripped the back of his collar. Jason almost yelped but managed to suppress it when the vigilante pulled his hand back just as quickly. In between his fingers was a small, metallic-looking device. Jason touched the back of his collar in delayed action.

"You put that on me when you grabbed me last night, didn't you."

The vigilante's silence only confirmed it.

"Sneaky bastard," Jason muttered under his breath. So, Selina had a point in not letting him go home immediately. He realized how much trouble he was in, but he wanted to turn it back onto the guy if only to save face. "So, you spend all this time and resources looking for one kid?"

"A kid with a stolen multimillion-dollar diamond is worth trailing."

Well, he had a point.

Jason felt the need to justify it, maybe he could convince him to go easy on him by reminding the Bat that there were other guys that he could focus on. It was a long shot, but he would do anything not to be pummeled, "I just didn't peg you for the kind of guy to care about the rich snobs getting jacked—killed, sure—but not jacked. I thought you were more interested in guys like the Penguin and Thorne. Yet right now, you're what, picking on a couple of thieves who stole a rock."

"I do not tolerate any crime in this city," the voice was low and severe.

Jason tried to continue despite the chill that ran down his spine, "Yeah, there's got to be a hierarchy, right? Thorne's been especially bad since he got into town a few years ago. He controls a small part, but it's like a dictatorship."

"I know."

"Then why aren't you doing anything?" Jason continued to try and not sound accusatory, "You seem to be focusing on Penguin and his guys. Yeah, he's bad, he has the guns, but Thorne is a real piece of work dealing in drugs and people. He's just making it worse for everyone. He's like a king, and no one's doing anything about it." Jason nodded his head forward. "He's got places where he abducts homeless people to use as drug mules. I've seen the aftermath, they've got scars everywhere. They pack those people. Did you know that?"

The vigilante was silent, almost indicating that he hadn't known.

Jason thought about it for a moment. It was understandable that there were holes in the information. The people of the Narrows were notoriously tight-lipped; it wasn't odd to find a kid who couldn't count past sixteen but could name almost every single one of Thorne's enforcers and their trade routes. The only reason they weren't a resource to any form of law enforcement was because of the silence creed that penetrated the community. The only way to know the Narrows was to _be _in the Narrows. By the looks of the vigilante's entire operation, he couldn't be from the Narrows. That was going to leave a blind spot. It did seem that the vigilante worked alone; taking down all the problems and focusing on every facet of the underworld would be an impossibility alone. A sudden thought entered Jason's mind. Maybe it was some sort of "fanboy"—as Selina would probably say—wish, but maybe he could be on to something.

"Y'know, I could help you," Jason said quickly.

The vigilante paused in a moment of confusion at the out-of-the-blue-statement, "Help me?"

Jason licked his lips nervously before he continued, "Street kids see and hear everything; we're like flies on the wall. If I get anything, I can tell you. While I'm around here, I could tell you what the gangs are doing, where they're moving, and anything else that might be helpful. You'd be surprised how much you see in the Narrows in broad daylight. I mean, Anarky put up _fliers _for his stupid recruiting rally. I've been told that I can still pull off the 'cute and innocent kid' vibe. If that doesn't work, I'm pretty good at sneaking around. I can get you information that someone dressed as a bat can't, and I doubt you do much recon during the day."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, considering there's a new headline with you in it every other night, I suspect your sleep schedule is nocturnal. Plus, I think anyone would notice a man dressed as a bat walking around in broad daylight. I mean, eight weapon caches in the last, what, month would keep anyone busy."

"You've been following me," there was almost a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I—I" Jason stopped. "I saw you take down a mugger a while back. I was up on a fire escape, and I saw you slam a mugger into a wall. You beat him down like he was nothing. I don't know it was—" he almost said 'cool' but stopped himself. He felt like he couldn't admit it. "I've never seen someone with that kind of power. I've been kind of following you in the paper ever since."

Bruce hadn't noticed anyone of the sort hiding in the shadows. If the kid was telling the truth, he must have been particularly stealthy.

Jason continued, "You're doing something that the cops haven't in years. They're all tied up with bureaucracy. You're out here kicking ass and taking those parasitic assholes down. If I could do that, if I could kick some of their teeth in, even metaphorically, then I'd be doing something to make it easier for everyone." Jason paused for a moment, "Look, I don't like stealing."

The vigilante turned his head slightly indicating disbelief.

"Ok," Jason smirked, "It is fun, but—" he returned to a serious tone. "I do it to survive. I would give anything to have an actual meal, you know? I—most people steal out of a need, right? To be honest, it's not your regular poverty that's keeping the people down in the Narrows and other parts of Gotham. It's the gangs. If you keep doing what you're doing, they'll eventually get taken down or be so weakened they can't do anything. Then, maybe people can start to get back up on their feet."

Jason realized that he was spilling his guts. He knew that it was partially the nerves talking—he talked too much when he was nervous—but he meant it. Everyone was suffering. Jason never felt like he was an altruistic person, but, if he could make life suck less for someone else, then he wouldn't mind helping.

"Look," Jason said quickly. "You took down Anarky, and that guy was hellbound on causing chaos. You're now taking on the Penguin and the gangs. The only way I see it, you're going to change things, and that's alright in my book. I may not be an angel, but I hate people like them more than anything. They'd be better off dead. You can do something about these guys. I can help you with that."

The kid was making good points. Having a partner—an informant—would allow him more time to focus on the real matter at hand. He was still just breaking into the information circles, and they were tightlipped no matter how much cash was thrown at them—information was invaluable. Plus, Selina had hired him, whether it had been on the spot or not. That meant he was reliable at the very least; he was lying on her behalf after all. Right now, the kid was the only tie back to Selina since she had disappeared the previous night. Maybe he could even use him to get information and Selina.

A memory flashed into his mind: Alex Winthrop, a fifteen-year-old whose throat was cut because the mission was more important than any life. The memory had been seared into his mind. The frightened teen had glanced at Bruce with begging eyes; he had wanted Bruce to save him. Bruce had to make a choice. He chose the greater good; Ra's slit his throat without a second thought. Alex paid the price for his continuous meddling in things that most would leave alone. No, he couldn't recruit him. The war to save Gotham was no place for decent people, let alone children. He couldn't let another innocence die.

There was another thing that bothered Bruce; he hadn't allowed it to surface until now. Red hair, a fixation on violence, a proclivity for delinquency, an obsession with him, and the need to joke in stressful situations: it was all coincidence, but Bruce didn't like it. It reminded him too much of _him._ He knew that it was partially irrational, but it was a gut feeling. He couldn't allow this kid to get close, either for the kid's safety or perhaps even his own, but he couldn't leave the kid on his own.

The silence returned. Jason swallowed. He thought that he could have gotten a response, maybe even some leniency, if he tried to help him. He liked the idea of helping the vigilante taking on the gangs; he wanted to do something to bring those bastards down a peg. Now though, there were some quick turns that the car took; Jason wasn't sure where the Bat was taking him. He had lost track several streets ago and the windows were tinted on his side making it impossible to see out of it. The fear started to settle in again as he realized the situation again. Whatever levity and openness he had once felt evaporated with the silence.

Suddenly, the car skidded to a stop. Jason worriedly glanced to his left as the vigilante vanished out the side and left him in darkness. Several thoughts pinged around in Jason's head. Where the hell was he? The door to the passenger side was whipped open and he was seized by the scruff of his neck. In a flash, he was yanked out of the armored car. He let out a short yelp; it was all his constricted throat could muster. He was roughly put down on the ground, and his head bumped against something metal. Whatever the metal thing was propped him up in a sitting position. His hand was suddenly above his head, and he felt cold metal on his wrist.

Dazed and confused, he tried to regain his composure quickly. He noticed the warm summer air on his skin and saw the open cityscape around him. He looked back to his wrist and saw that it was handcuffed to a metal fence. He quickly scrambled to his feet. The black figure of the Bat slinked back towards the armored vehicle.

"HEY!" Jason yelled as the figure headed back into the armored car. "Hey! What the hell!"

"That leg injury is going to keep you from moving around for a couple of days; I suggest you stay here for the time being," the vigilante said sternly.

"Damn it!" Jason yanked against the handcuff and fencing. He pulled against it hard, trying to squeeze his hand out of the handcuff. It wouldn't budge. "Come on! You can't do this! I can help you!"

"I work alone," the vigilante responded as he entered the vehicle.

"Hey! Don't—" the engine revved and the car sped down the street in a flash. "—leave. . ."

Jason cursed profusely. Great, he had gotten himself out of one pickle and into another. He tried again against the gate, but it wouldn't budge. His eye was pulled upwards and he read the bolded lettering on the gate. He grumbled curses as he realized his situation and a light turned on in the building that the gate surrounded. He sat down as he remained cuffed to the fence of the Falcone Orphanage.

* * *

The secret basement of the Iceberg Lounge provided a place of tranquility for Ed. Tranquility was like a natural resource, and Ed refined it into fuel for his mind. Oswald had barely given Ed five hours and already he had already gotten to work. The first hour was simply unpacking everything; there was a lot to unpack. Before, there had been nothing but a blank wall and a couple of unused tables. Now, there were boxes upon boxes of Ed's things, contraptions, and info on the vigilante. Apparently, Ed had stored things over the years in a storage unit on the edge of Gotham and had paid some people to bring over the contents even before he had struck a deal with Oswald. Oswald realized that Ed had a lot of confidence in his persuasion abilities.

Oswald made his way down the secret staircase to the underground room. He found Ed as he had expected, furiously constructing his wall of conspiracies and connections. He was still in his green suit, but then again, Ed rarely dressed down. There were only a few of his men still lingering, but they quickly left with a gesture from Oswald.

"Hello Oswald," Ed greeted without turning around. "I've made progress now that my things are all set up. I'd say I'm close to nailing him."

"So," Oswald said with a hint of worry; he had hoped to beat Ed and keep him on as a resource. "You figured him out already?"

"Well, no," Ed shook his head. "But I've made great headway from the flight over and in the past couple of hours. Behold, my list of suspects!"

Edward swung his hands dramatically and sidestepped to reveal a large corkboard with multiple pictures and red wires that connected them. There were different labels and newspaper articles. It was a chaotic mess, Oswald couldn't see how the man in green made any sense of it. He started to count the pictures of the suspects—one, two, ten, twenty, fifty—

"Wait," Oswald stopped counting after a couple of seconds revealed that it was futile. "How many are there?"

"Oh, approximately 7458," Ed nodded quickly. "I don't have _all _of the pictures up yet. But rest assured, I will whittle that number down over time."

"Whittle it down?" Oswald breathed exasperated. That will take ages, Ed! Are you sure you're not just handing me the wager? I thought there would be more competition."

"This would have been easier if Gotham were not such a city of outliers. If you haven't noticed, there are some rather extraordinarily extra-violent people here. The worst thing that I can do is rule the real suspect out. So, I cast a wide net."

"How wide, Ed?"

Ed turned around to face Oswald with a slightly annoyed expression, "I thought you wanted to win."

"I fund both sides, I have a vested interest in whichever way this goes. I don't like seeing my money wasted checking through several thousand people's backgrounds."

"Fair enough," Ed nodded. "Just took into account male Gothamites, who are over 5' 8" and have the appropriate physique. That's about as wide as possible. Next, I just have to examine any potential military background, financial income, social connections, and finally, create a profile for the Batman and apply it."

"Simple," Oswald said sarcastically.

"Yes, simple but time-consuming," Ed shook his head, missing the sarcasm.

As Ed continued to scan over his work, Oswald found his gaze shift to Ed's workbench. There were half-made inventions and contraptions lying on a table. From experience, Oswald knew this was what Ed did when he was "relaxing" or "taking a break." Among the confused unorganized myriad of mechanical parts, something stood out to him. A long, almost gun-shaped object was hidden under a tarp; it was placed off to the side, separate from the other parts like it was being worked on.

"What's this?" Oswald made his way over the object.

Ed quickly cut him off by stepping in front of the work table.

"Another subject for another time," Ed said quickly, "maybe when it's finished."

Oswald rolled his eyes, "Of course."

"Heard you were planning something against the bat," Riddler changed the subject quickly. "Perhaps you took this wager because you knew it was close to won?"

Penguin smirked, "Maybe. We'll know in a few days when the bat is dead."

"_If _he's dead."

"_When_ he's dead. I'm going to oversee it myself so it gets done."

Ed made a face, "Oswald, your strength in the underworld is anonymity, your ability to distance yourself from all your criminal enterprises on the surface. From what I've studied, the Bat may not kill, but he does not fail in arresting people who get in his way. If the Bat takes you down, then it would be hard to explain to Gordon."

"Like Gordon can do anything, I've got enough friends in high places," Oswald smirked, "Are you afraid that I'm going to win, Ed?"

Ed thinned his lip, "Perhaps I just don't want to see an old friend end up in prison again so soon." He rocked from side to side a little as Oswald looked up in appreciation. "If your assets get seized again, I lose my chance as well. Also, it wouldn't be much of a competition if my rival was out of the game."

Oswald rolled his eyes again—as if he could expect an emotional response from the Riddler. He turned to the staircase and started to waddle up it to return to the Lounge's main floor, "You want to beat me? Whittle down the list!"

* * *

Lee woke to find her bed empty. This was not uncommon. Gordon often found himself working late nights or dealing with an emergency at four in the morning. What was strange was that she remembered Jim coming home early, and she hadn't been woken up by him quickly getting his clothes on to leave. She glanced at the clock to make sure that it wasn't later than what she thought. She sat up, 3 AM was no time to be getting up.

Lee shifted off of the bed and made her way out of the room. After checking the bathroom and Junior's room, she made her way down to the first floor. She noticed a low warm light coming from the kitchen. She entered the moderate-sized kitchen to find Jim seated at the kitchen table while looking down at a newspaper.

"What are you doing up?" Lee asked as entered the room.

"Thinking," that was the only reason he gave.

"Oh, that's dangerous," Lee commented casually.

Gordon smiled slightly, "You can go back to bed. I'll be up soon."

"I don't think I could rest easy knowing something's bothering you more than usual," Lee took a seat opposite of him. "Come on, I'm a trained therapist and a doctor; I bet I can cure what ails you."

"I don't know," Gordon muttered as he tapped his fingers. "I've been thinking about it since the night of the gala. Bruce is so different."

"Oh," Lee exhaled. She remembered her brief encounter with the man during his first surprise entrance. "Yeah, I know. He's a little more. . . outgoing."

"You can say that again," Gordon gave a short smile. "I would have had a hard time recognizing him if I hadn't seen him on the TV beforehand. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to know that he's back and safe. I just thought that maybe—"

"You two were cut from the same heroic cloth," Lee finished.

Gordon sighed, "Is it stupid to think about it like that?"

"It's a lot to put on him," Lee said with a soft smile. "Not everyone could live up to your shining example."

"No, but I thought—he was such a different person years ago. During No Man's Land, if I had anything I needed to get done, he was right there willing to volunteer. Now—" he shook his head. "Maybe seeing him again was just a little. . ."

"Disappointing?" Lee nodded. "I understand. I can't say that I'm not disappointed with how he turned out. The circumstances were not easy on him. If I went through all the things that he went through at such a young age, I would have taken a lifetime vacation from Gotham—spent my days on some beach. I'm not trying to make excuses for him, but he has reasons."

"I don't blame him either, but he seemed to have left with a purpose. I could see it when he told me he was leaving. I don't want to think that he might have abandoned that for shallow pleasures."

"I know that," Lee nodded slightly.

"I just don't want it to destroy him," He turned the paper so that Lee could take a look at the paper. It was talking about Bruce's general reclusiveness after the Anarky incident. "But maybe it already has. He was distraught after the whole incident at Wayne Manor. Maybe coming back to Gotham under the circumstances was too much of a shock. Harvey suggested something the other day that made me think for a moment—" he paused for a second. "It was something that I knew Bruce would never do, but Harvey pointed out that he wasn't the same anymore. Maybe I've been taking it to heart when I really shouldn't without talking to him. I've been wanting to speak with him since, but I haven't had the time. I don't know what I would say to him."

"Hey, I know that the exterior might be a bit rough, but when I saw him, I knew there was a piece of the old Bruce in him." Maybe it was a bit of a stretch, but she had to give Jim hope. "If you wanted to see him and talk to him, I bet he'd meet you in a heartbeat. You're one of his oldest friends." She touched his hand. "Don't worry, the old Bruce is in there."

"Yeah," Gordon sighed. "I just hope he comes back soon."

* * *

The guy was freaky looking. The hooded man had entered the empty 24hr store about half an hour after three AM. The clerk had glanced up as he came in but didn't look at him too long though. He had lived in Gotham long enough to know some people were really touchy about being stared at, especially when they looked as scarred and unnatural as this guy did. The clerk quickly averted his eyes. It was better to keep his head down than stare and get in trouble.

The stranger wandered the aisles for several minutes. The clerk didn't pay too much attention. There was the possibility that man was shoplifting, but he knew better than to confront someone over that. People had been killed for less. He glanced over occasionally, just to make sure that he hadn't disappeared into the back room or something. Eventually, the night caught up with him, and the clerk started to drift to sleep when suddenly a shopping basket was slammed onto the counter.

The clerk jolted awake, and a small chuckle came from the man. The man didn't say anything, so the clerk looked over the items. There were some food and alcoholic drinks, but the more outlandish items attracted his attention. There was an assortment of small gags, things that were usually bought by parents with whiny, annoying brats. At the bottom of the basket, there was an as-seen-on-TV hair growth product.

"Do you know if this actually works?" The man asked as he tapped the hair growth product. He had a raspy voice like he hadn't spoken in a long time.

The clerk shrugged, unphased. He started scanning items; it would be best to get the guy out as soon as possible. He just creeped the clerk out. That didn't stop the customer from speaking.

"I'm really nervous because I'm going to be meeting some old friends soon," he smiled as if reminiscing. "I just want to look my best for when I see them again. I had an accident. Spent a _long _time in the hospital. When you've been in the hospital as long as I have, you get really stiff and gross. I was at a really crummy hospital too. Got bed sores all the time, and I had to build back up my muscles because they atrophied. Not to mention I couldn't speak. The worst part though is that no one visited! Not a single colleague or pal of mine for as far as the eye could see. My best friend and my girl didn't show up either. Though maybe I did make him angry before I left. But my girl? She has_ no _excuses."

"Uh-huh," the clerk nodded lackadaisically and scratched his beard.

The pale man kept on talking despite the clerk's obvious lack of interest, "Missed so many birthdays, holidays, so I've got to do something for him, for all my friends. Something they'll never forget. So, I'm going to need a lot of those propane gas tanks. I'm planning something of a barbecue."

"I need your I.D. then."

The man cocked his head to the side, "Do I look like I'm a minor?"

"You don't look like you're human, man. I don't know," the clerk shrugged. "City policy gotta keep track of who buys propane. Also, you can only buy three propane tanks, Gotham regulation."

"Regulations, so many regulations. Just take my word for it. Name's Jack, no—doesn't sound right. Jethro then." He screwed up his face. "No, no, nothing sounds right. John maybe, or perhaps-"

"Jerome?"

The man exploded into laughter. The laughter made the clerk jump as it was the only sound the man had made louder than a whisper. Oh great, he was one of those freaks.

"In another lifetime, maybe," He said as the laugh petered out.

"Look I just need your I.D.," it was really too late for the clerk to want to deal with this guy.

The man searched his pockets until he took out a small card. He slapped it face down and slid it across the counter. It was obviously a playing card.

"Very funny, man," the clerk turned over the card in his hand and read the card's coat. "Come on."

"Oh, fine then, no propane," The figure huffed. "I'll get it somewhere else."

"Yeah, fine," he tallied the rest of the items. "That'll be 56.78." He found himself sniffle a little. Something smelled strange. Maybe the hotdogs on the rotator were burning again.

The man already had already pulled out a ratty wallet and was going through it. It was evident from first glance that there were no cash or credit cards in the wallet.

In spite of the apparent lack of currency, the pale man turned the wallet upside down, shook it theatrically, shrugged to himself, and tossed the wallet over his shoulder, "Oh dear, looks like I don't have the cash."

The casher groaned, usually, he wouldn't care if someone just walked out the door without paying. It was Gotham; he wasn't going to get shot over a stolen slushy or something. Now, he was genuinely pissed. The freak knew he had nothing to pay for his stuff at the beginning, and he was just toying with him. It was almost like the guy wanted conflict. Something about him just radiated unease. The clerk found himself checking for the gun under the counter with his free hand. His eyes watered as the smell continued throughout the air.

"Look, buddy," the clerk kept a stoic tone. "Go hassle someone else, alright? You want to take the stuff, go ahead. I've got more important things to do, alright?"

The figure just nodded and shrugged, "Good on you; taking a fall for me. Yeah, I think there are more important things that require your attention, like the fire."

"Fire?" The clerk scrunched up his face in confusion.

The strange man rolled his eyes and jabbed his thumb in the direction of the back of the store. The clerk followed the gesture. He jumped as a black plume of smoke billowed from the half-open janitor's closet. For a moment, the clerk forgot the man as he felt adrenaline rush through his veins. He quickly turned and picked up the desk phone behind him to call 911. He wasn't met with the sound of a dial tone. He cursed and left the counter to go take care of the flames himself. If it continued at this rate, he wouldn't have a job by tomorrow.

The clerk sprinted into the hallway next to the backroom and almost tripped over a stepladder that had been precariously placed in the middle of the hallway. He glanced up for a moment and noticed that the stepladder led to a disconnected fire alarm. Ignoring that, the clerk quickly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the corner of the hall and headed to the fire. He shoved open the door to the closet and fire lurched forward with a flash of heat. Some of the cleaning chemicals had evaporated or otherwise combusted, and a noxious smell made him woozy. He quickly fixed the nozzle and went to work extinguishing the flames.

Meanwhile, the man had disappeared behind the counter. He quickly went over to the keyring and grabbed the keys to the outdoor propane cage from behind the counter. He took a moment to examine the VCR connected to the overhead security camera and ejected the tape. He grabbed his basket and spun to leave the store and the clerk to battle the flames. Suddenly, he stopped. An idea, one too perfect to miss, popped into his mind. Besides, he couldn't have someone figuring it out to soon. Best get rid of the witnesses. He set the basket down and walked casually to where the clerk was frantically putting out the flames. He stopped behind him, observed the clerk's frantic actions for a moment, and raise his foot to a comical height.

"That's something you'll definitely get fired over," the clerk barely registered the words before the next action.

The clerk was suddenly shoved from behind. He let out a yell as he fell right into the arms of the flames. A second in and his clothes caught fire. He let out a scream in agony as he attempted to pull himself from the flame. The burning chemicals seared into his clothes and skin. He immediately started to roll on the ground and flailed to extinguish the flame.

The hooded man, unfazed, simply walked down the aisle back to the front of the store. On his way, he scooped up a couple more boxes of the hair care products and dumped them into his basket. He paused once more at the counter and looked over at where the clerk had left his "ID" and picked it up.

"Might need you later," He stuffed it into his pocket and left the store full of smoke and the anguished screams of the clerk.

* * *

**Thank you for all the support! I'm still working on** **making consistent updates and settling in with my new schedule. Good thing though, I took the time to outline most of the story, so that should help in the future. I had one before, but not as detailed.**

**Thank you for your consistent support with favs, follows, and reviews (reviews especially help because I can see what you guys like so I can continue doing that).**

**As always, thanks for reading!**


	10. Umbrella

10\. Umbrella

"I have to get going or I will be late," Oswald complained as he made his way down the stairs to Ed's den. "I have another investment to look after; I don't need to be late for my appointment."

"I know that you have an appearance to keep up," the voice of Edward responded from his den. "But I assure you this will only take a moment of your precious time."

It had been almost a week since Ed had appeared at Cobblepot's doorstep. He was glad that Ed was back in town working for him, but Ed had become engrossed in his work. He barely allowed time for the occasional chat. When he went downstairs to simply talk with one of his only and oldest friends, he would either find him asleep in his chair at the strangest times or he would be quickly repelled with a "Not now, Oswald," "Just let me finish this thought," or an "I really need to focus right now." Oswald often felt like he was simply the landlord to Ed.

"Well it better be only a moment," he knew he was being snippy, but he felt that Ed deserved it.

Ed, who was standing near his workbench, simply smiled playfully as he turned around, "Oh? I've never known you for one to be turning down a gift."

Oswald realized that Ed was standing next to the table that housed the long object that he had questioned several days ago. He raised an eyebrow, "Gift?"

The Riddler yanked back a cloth to reveal the object underneath. He picked it up delicately and held it out to him like a sword. The lengthy black umbrella looked rather large in his hands.

"I just wanted to give you something of appreciation since I had come in so quickly and demanded a wager," he looked rather pleased with himself despite the simplicity of the gift he presented. "I remembered those puzzles that you sent me during my stay in Arkham. I've missed enough time to feel like I should repay you in some respects. So, I made you—"

"It's an umbrella, Ed," Oswald pursed his lip in disappointment. He grabbed it from Ed's hands and was surprised by the weight and the thickness of the stem. "Well, I can't say it's the _worst_ gift I've ever—"

"Oswald," Ed added quickly as the umbrella was jerked away from him, "I wouldn't—"

Oswald's finger grazed the crook of the umbrella handle accidentally; he felt something like a little button there. Thinking it was to open the umbrella, he pushed it in.

There was a loud _BANG!_ They both cringed and recoiled as the resounding sound echoed through the large, soundproof room. Oswald felt his hand kick up into the air with tremendous force and something like splinters graze his exposed skin. When he looked up, half expecting his hand to be blown completely off, he saw the damage. The wooden table that had been in front of the umbrella's tip had been blown to a splintery mess. It hardly looked like a table with the main structure fractured beyond repair.

"Ed," Oswald asked loudly; his ears still ringing with the sound of the shot. "What was that?"

Ed pushed his crooked glasses back onto his nose, "Well, I used a modified 12 gauge and—"

"English," Oswald had to stop him before he went on further.

"It's a shotgun in an umbrella."

"Really?" Oswald suddenly pointed it upward just in case it went off again.

"Don't worry," Ed nodded, "it only has one shot in it for now. The shot ruins the umbrella." He took the umbrella from the Penguin and pointed to the tip. The pointed tip was now blown off and the umbrella started to peel away in various directions like a wilted flower. "I'm working to fix that problem as well as find a cloth material for the umbrella that is bullet retardant and a better compact design. Fortunately," Ed tossed the umbrella to the side, went over to the bench again, and pulled out another umbrella identical to the last one, "I foresaw that something like this might happen."

Oswald was a bit flabbergasted as he took the spare umbrella from Edward. Ed started to ramble on about the modifications that he had implemented to make the concealed weapon and how it could act as a regular umbrella when needed. Oswald felt a swell of emotion; he hadn't received a gift that wasn't coerced out of someone in over ten years. That's what bothered him. He remained quiet and mulled over the implications of the gift. Ed was often obtuse about remembering social related events or customs—even to the point of forgetting his own birthday. He had rarely shown this much appreciation. The gift was touching, but Oswald felt the need to question it for safety's sake.

"Why did you do this for me?" Oswald asked finally.

"I was thinking about it for a while. Since you are a man of power, yet you need to keep up a good public appearance, I decided that you might require a concealed weapon since your bodyguards cannot be everywhere with you." He shrugged his shoulders, "Let's just say I had a lot of time to think in a Bialyan bunker."

Maybe he was overthinking it. Ed didn't seem to have any gain in betraying him. Oswald knew that he had to assume that there was someone he could at least trust. Otherwise, he would lose his mind. Prison had been a time when he didn't know who to trust, but he knew that Ed wouldn't let him down—or at least plan to kill him without provocation.

With a grin stretched across his face, Oswald nodded, "I guarantee it will be put to good use."

"I don't doubt it," Ed smiled back and suddenly checked his watch. "You'd better get going to see your—" he paused for a moment to think of the word "—chickens, was it?"

"Chickens of a sort. You are most certainly right; I am late," Oswald snapped out of his thoughts. He thought to show his gratitude at least a little, "Thank you, Ed."

With that, he turned around and made his way to the stairs. Ed turned back to his corkboard and started adding new data.

After a few moments, Edward thought it would be good to call after him with a final note of warning, "Mind not to point that in the direction of children, the firing mechanism is a little touchy."

* * *

"Come on, stop it, you look pathetic."

"Whoever dumped you here, they're not coming back."

"You're not getting out again, Jay."

Jason ignored the constant jeering as he made his way around the perimeter of the Falcone Home and School for Orphans. Recess only lasted for forty-five minutes, and he needed every minute of it to scour the fence line for a weakness. It had changed so much since his last escape. He wasn't glad to be back. The standard, mandatory burgundy sweater vest clothing of the orphanage was just an extra annoyance.

He had grown up at the orphanage. It was where he had gone to school; it was practically the only reason he was even literate. It was a nice life, but Jason had always been a bit of a trouble maker and a hothead. He made one crying, bloody nosed kid and the threat of a juvenile behavior correctional facility was on the immediate horizon. Jason knew he'd take his chances anywhere else but there. He had abandoned the place and decided to never look back. Living in the orphanage just didn't seem like the kind of life he wanted. He hadn't set foot there in four or five years; he wouldn't have returned willingly.

It had been almost a week since the Bat had arrested him to the metal fence of the orphanage. He had spent the past several days being locked away in the practical prison. They were accustomed to taking care of "troubled youths" and that made escape—especially escape on an injured leg—much harder. He spotted more security improvements from the last time he had been there.

"Just give it a rest, gimpy."

Of course, the residents of the orphanage kept him company with all their jeering and what not. Orphanages like these had a social hierarchy to them; right now, he was flat at the bottom of the totem pole. Now that he had returned, he was treated like he was a miscreant. Most of the other kids were too innocent to know what it was really like; so, when Jason, a known juvenile delinquent, showed up handcuffed to the gates, there was a lot of talk about why. Most came to the conclusion that he was involved in one of the gangs or other stupid stories like that. Part of him wanted to tell them the real deal—that he had been practically arrested because he had aided in stealing one of the most precious jewels in Gotham—but he knew they wouldn't believe him. This led to small bouts of bullying. Usually verbal abuse, but he didn't mind. It gave him some practice on comebacks. It was almost amusing with how ill-constructed all of their insults were.

One of the factors that added to his treatment was his injury. His limp hadn't completely healed, but he refused to use crutches. Still, the other kids took advantage of his state as they would often berate him and then run. He knew that his reactions only spurred them on, but sometimes they really pissed him off. It wasn't bad enough that he was stuck in the orphanage. He would have at least attempted an escape if it wasn't for his leg.

Suddenly, something got his attention. Out on the street, a black car pulled around the corner and headed towards the front of the orphanage. Jason noticed that a group of the children decided to rush to the front to see the new arrival. He rolled his eyes; it was probably some rich benefactor that wanted a tour. What was strange was that it drew a substantial crowd at the front of the orphanage that slowly moved inside with the person. Strange, he'd never known one of the benefactors to be so beloved.

Curiously, Jason entered the orphanage through a side door and made his way to the open hall at the front. He was shocked to find a crowd of children and teens around all murmuring. He furrowed his brow at the behavior and drew closer. Being relatively short, he couldn't see too much over their heads. He approached the crowd and heard the head matron speaking quickly.

"—has dedicated his hard-earned money to keep this school open and renovate it after the horrors ten years ago," the head matron said cheerfully. "Thank you for being a constant investor in the Falcone Home and School for Orphans, Mr. Cobblepot,"

"Think nothing of it," the piercing voice echoed in the hall. "I was good friends with Mr. Falcone. I want nothing more than to see that the good work the home does continue into the future."

Jason froze. He found himself looking over the crowd even more now. All he got was a glimpse of the tip of a top hat. Jason thought for a moment. Cobblepot had long been a primary donator to the funding and rebuilding of the orphanage. Jason always thought that it had to do with some respect-points paid to the Falcone family or as a front for something else. He had spent many nights during his childhood looking for secret hideaways or stashes, but nothing had ever come of it. This was his first time having seen the man show up in person.

"Children leave Mr. Cobblepot alone," the matron called. "He's a very busy man and just wants a tour."

The crowd started to disperse, and Jason got a better look at the man. He looked rather pathetic for a man of power—more like a bowling ball really. He had heard tales of the vengeful Penguin, a man who would boil a man alive in chicken broth for simply looking at him wrong. Now that just seemed like Narrows legends. The man with a top hat, garish clothing, monocle, and black umbrella before him just didn't live up to the hype. Then again, appearances were often deceiving.

He watched as the matron and the crime lord started to chat. Jason scoffed. If anything, it was an insult for him to be there. It was no doubt thanks to the Penguin that several of the orphans were there. His exploits during No Man's Land were notorious, starving his own people just to enjoy some prime rib. It made him sick to think that this bulbous man was just enjoying his visit to his PR stunt.

A thought occurred to him. Penguin didn't seem to be the type of man to do anything without it benefiting himself. Penguin was up to something. He knew that it wasn't his business and usually he would let his "lay low" instincts take over, but he couldn't help but see an opportunity. He had been dumped at the orphanage because the Bat didn't want his help. Of course, the vigilante wouldn't take the help of just a random street kid. He felt the need to prove himself. If Penguin dropped some pearls of knowledge, then that would be invaluable to him. The Bat doubted him now, but if he got some real information and showed his worth, then he would have to accept something of a partnership. So, he would follow them and see what he could learn.

Jason tailed the head matron and the Penguin on their tour through the halls. He moved as quietly as he could, not even daring to peek around corners. There was very little said of note between the two—mostly funding and how it was used. If it was some kind of code, which he doubted, he would have no way of decoding it. He took notice of what he could, which wasn't much.

They finally ended up in the main office room. Jason crouched around the other side of the door frame—the orphanage had an open-door policy—and made sure that he could hear what they were talking about. They were just finishing up their conversation about the general welfare of the children, and Jason was starting to regret his decision to spend his afternoon sneaking about on an injured knee. Suddenly, a cellphone went off. Cobblepot waved off the head matron as his cellphone rang. She left the room quickly and didn't notice Jason at the door as she left. Jason remained still and strained his ear to hear the call.

"So, he talked, good," He sounded satisfied with himself. Jason's ears perked up as the vague dialogue between the Penguin and his subordinate played out. "That's enough to get his attention. The trap is set. Now, all we need is for you—"

"Hey, Jay, still got that stupid limp," Jay heard from behind him.

"Not now, I don't have time, Anatoli," He growled as he recognized the voice. He was an older kid who had never really left. He was also the reason Jason had almost been put in juvey. The sixteen-year-old was one of the more outwardly malicious children at the orphanage and at the top of the totem pole.

"What are you doing?" The older teen cocked his head to the side. The boy looked around the corner to see the Penguin on the phone. "Are you spying?"

"Shut up," Jason whispered furiously. If Anatoli blew his cover now, he'd never be able to get the information that he needed.

Meanwhile, Oswald became distracted from his call as harsh whispering came from around the bend.

"Stop being such a spying freak, Jay!" Anatoli yelled intentionally.

"Piss off!" Jason hissed hoping the Penguin wouldn't hear.

"I'll call you back," Penguin shut his phone to listen to the argument unfolding around the corner.

Jason now stood up and faced the older teen, "What do you want?"

"Guess what I found in confiscation," Anatoli held up a picture between his fingers. Jason glanced at it sideways before slowly turning to face him. It was the picture of Jason and his parents.

Jason felt his blood boil as he turned to the kid, "Give that to me."

"Come on, Jay, you have to move on," He shrugged with a grin.

"Give it to me right now," Jason forgot his spy mission and raised his voice at the sight of the photo. His face turned a dark red with the realization that his most treasured possession was in the hands of the older boy.

"I don't know," the other boy smirked. "You broke my nose last time we met. I don't think you deserve it. You should be off in juvey not coming back here after all the crap you put me through."

"Shut up," Jason gritted his teeth. He stepped forward to take it from him, but Anatoli simply took several steps back to avoid him. Things were becoming blurry as Jason's vision went red. "Give it to me!"

"If you want it so bad, come and ge—"

It was because of Jay's leg injury that Anatoli didn't expect Jason to tackle him. Jason felt a ping of pain as he put his full weight on his bad knee. He didn't care. He needed to get that picture out of his grubby hands.

Oswald was a little shocked to see the brawl break out in front of him. Then he found himself huff with amusement. A small red-haired boy was beating a much larger, burly boy. It was almost amusing how quickly the larger teen was overwhelmed despite his effort to push him off. The redhaired boy fought with such ferocity that it brought a small smile to his face.

Jason managed to get in several good punches. He didn't even hear the sound of the matron yelling at him to stop. He only realized it when he was jerked by the collar of his outfit. Before he was pulled off, he snatched the photo from Anatoli's hand. He stumbled to his feet at the matron separated them and started to scold both of them. Anatoli scrambled up and spat some blood on the ground. He glared at Jason through a new black eye. Jason felt his knuckles swell, and he flexed his hand. He felt his knee throb with the strain of being used too early again.

The Matron, seeing most of the damage on Anatoli, turned on Jason, "Jason, I gave you one chance; this behavior is unacceptable. I'm going to make a call to the juv—"

"I don't think that's necessary," Jason stiffened as he heard the sound of a new voice enter the conversation. The Penguin stepped forward and spoke, "I believe that the story is, unfortunately, the other way around." Jason suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. "This boy was merely protecting himself. I saw the whole thing. I don't think there is a need to call the authorities."

The matron simply glanced about as she didn't know what to do. She couldn't go against the main benefactor's word. She simply thinned her lip and grabbed the other boy's ear. Anatoli complained as he was led down the hall by his ear.

Meanwhile, the hand released Jason's shoulder as the Penguin shifted to resume his spot at the window. Jason glanced between the hallway and Cobblepot. He knew his spying operation wasn't going to happen now. If Penguin hadn't learned that he was spying on him from Anatoli's yelling, then he would keep an eye out for the kid he saw violently punch someone's lights out. He couldn't stay. Jason took the chance to vacate the area.

"Come here, boy," Jason stopped instinctually. He slowly swiveled his head to glance sideways at the crime lord as he gestured to him with a finger. Jason swallowed. He was smart enough to know that when the Penguin, one of the most powerful and mentally unstable men in Gotham, beckons you over, you don't ignore him. The Penguin gestured to follow him over to the window. Jason slowly shuffled over to where the short man was overseeing the playground below. After a moment of silence, Jason followed his gaze out onto the playground.

"What do you see when you look out this window?" Cobblepot spoke.

Jason was taken aback by the question. He knew the Penguin's reputation from old stories, but it seemed strange to think he would even stoop so low as to talk to a child. Still, this was an opportunity to get information out of him. He just needed to be careful. Jason thought back to the day he had visited the museum with Selina. He remembered the way she had sobbed into the security guard's good graces. Acting: he'd never been convincing when it came to long-term lies, but maybe he could fake it for just a little while. He swallowed. He'd have to act cute, innocent, and dumb if he was going to get information out of him.

"Oh," Jason shrugged. "I don't know." Something innocent, "Just a lot of my friends playing outside."

Cobblepot glanced at him sideways, "I've seen how your 'friends' treat you. You don't need to dignify them with that word."

"Ok then," Jason glanced outside and tried again. "I see a bunch of kids playing."

"Clinical, precise," the Penguin's eyes rolled to look at the boy. "Tell me what you really think."

Jason weighed his options for a moment. He knew that if he gave his innocent answer again it wouldn't help. Cobblepot didn't seem to believe it either. He might as well tell the truth.

"I see a bunch of carefree kids who don't know the half of what it's like out there. Those that do know they have it good and use their security as an ego boost while they intimidate people into doing what they want with their knowledge of the street. It's a hierarchy of the strongest and toughest."

The Penguin blinked, he hadn't expected such an astute answer, "Precisely. The brutes win out. Let me tell you, that's only true in here. Out there, you need more than muscle and a criminal record. That barbarous boy will end up a grunt at best. Might I see?" Oswald asked and gestured to the photograph.

Taking a second, Jason decided to hand over the picture. The Penguin's good eye scanned the photo and there was an emotion that Jason couldn't quite pin down. Empathy? Recognition? It was strange to see it on the face of a man who he knew was responsible for countless deaths and ruined lives. He simply handed back the photo to Jason.

"Good photograph," He said simply. "A shame he creased it. When you pay him back for it, make sure that they don't know it's you. There's a store down the way that sells explicit material. Imagine the shock and horror the matrons would have if they discovered such material in his possession."

Jason found himself smirk at the idea and folded his arms, "I don't know; I've never been one for subtlety."

"I know," The Penguin smiled slyly and looked at him sideways. "That's why your little spying expedition failed."

Jason unfolded his arms as the shock ran through him. His mouth ran dry. He remembered that he wasn't in the presence of a fuddy-duddy man but in the presence of a crime lord who could end him at any moment without the blink of an eye.

Seeing the shock, Oswald continued, "Tell me, boy. Why would you think that it would be a smart idea to do that?"

Jason frantically searched his thoughts for an answer, an answer that didn't start and end with, "I thought it would be cool to help out that vigilante that has been going around ruining your business." He didn't know what to say for a moment and dropped his gaze guiltily. He searched for some reason that didn't sound too suspicious but not too unbelievably innocent. An idea popped into his mind and he had to keep from gagging at the thought. It was possibly the only way to have a chance to convince him.

"Why were you spying on me?" The Penguin asked again, this time, there was a heavier tinge of suspicion and malice.

Jason lifted his gaze and forced the words out, "I just couldn't believe that my _personal hero_ actually came to visit."

"Personal hero?" Penguin blinked in a state of shock.

"Of course," Jason felt his cheeks tinge red; he hoped it looked like bashfulness rather than the absolute hatred of every word that tumbled from his mouth. "I heard a lot about your exploits from people in the Narrows. You are a respected man among them. You control everything. You're one of the most powerful men in Gotham."

The Penguin seemed dissatisfied with his reasoning, "There are many people with arguably as much power as I. The mayor came last week. Did you spy on him as well?"

Jason kept his mask of admiration going as he thought. He realized he was repeating himself. He needed another angle to make it more natural.

An idea pinged into his mind, "I mean, it's not every day that you meet someone who garners your respect and who also," he gestured to his injured leg, "walks like me."

A look of understanding crossed the man's face, "It is hard, isn't it. How did it happen?"

"I've had it since I was born. It's a birth defect," Jason lied.

Pity crossed his expression, "They all treat you poorly because of it."

"More than you'd care to think," Jason realized he was hamming it up a little too much, but the Penguin responded with complete sincerity.

"You don't need to take their abuse," Penguin assured him. "You have the gumption to run this place; you've already demonstrated that when you punched that brute for taking what's yours. You have passion for what you care about, and that's what matters," He smiled a little. "You're going places. Don't let anyone stop you because of the way you walk. Who knows? Maybe you could meet me on the outside one day. I could use someone with your fire."

He tapped the tip of the umbrella to the boy's shoulder. There was a flicker of fear as if he had suddenly remembered something, and he directed the tip skyward.

Jason, a little bewildered and disgusted simply replied, "Uh, thank you, Mr. Penguin."

Suddenly, there was a buzz. Penguin simply smirked and pulled out his cellphone.

"Duty calls," he said as he turned away and answered the phone. "So, are you done setting up to deal with our problem?"

Jason's ears perked up when he heard it. Problem: there were dozens of people whom the Penguin would label a problem. It wasn't specific enough information for anything.

"Yes, he should come tonight. . . At least fifteen men," He growled; after remembering that Jason was there, he spoke in a low tone. "That's the only way to deal with_ him_ thoroughly."

Who the hell would need fifteen guys to take down one person? He thought for a moment and came to his conclusion. The Bat: Penguin was going after the Bat; by the sound of it, it seemed like a trap. He knew he had gaps in his information and that he couldn't confirm anything, but he finally had his nugget of information.

"Good," Cobblepot smiled. "He won't suspect a thing."

Jason felt his chest seize up. He needed to warn the Bat somehow. If there was a plot against the vigilante, then he needed to be told immediately. Anything less and the Bat would die. He couldn't take on fifteen people—no one could. Even if he was wrong, it was better for the bat to know.

With a satisfied smile, Oswald closed his phone and turned back to the young boy, "So, boy, tell me, what was your name ag—"

The boy was gone.

* * *

Night had just fallen over the city; it was the perfect time for the raid. Bruce was scouting out a warehouse by the Gotham docks. There appeared to be no human activity, but that was just a front like always. The location came courtesy of a lucky find. He had found one of Penguin's men drunkenly harassing people on the street for their cash. It only took dangling over a four-story drop to sober him up. He had gotten a good deal of information from him.

"So, Cobblepot has been keeping a majority of his guns stored right in the old warehouse," Alfred noted through the communicator. "Call me cautious, but it seems almost too good to be true."

"Exactly," Bruce nodded. The unwilling source was a bit too loose-tongued for someone working for Penguin.

"Just be ready for anything."

"I always am."

In a flash, he glided down to the roof of the abandoned warehouse. The old ceiling had given way in parts leaving small holes to see inside. Bruce crouched down and surveyed the inside. Below there was a group of four armed guards on duty. They were illuminated by generator-based standee floodlights, no way to shut it off. They seemed to be huddled in a group next to a metal shipping crate—where they probably stashed the guns—and taking advantage of their lighted situation.

Bruce quickly took to plotting out his situation. He wouldn't be able to use the cover of darkness to approach; he doubted that he would be able to lure one of them out into the darkness. He'd have to obstruct their vision another way in order to start his assault.

"Cobblepot says he can hit as early as tonight," One of the grunts said.

"He'd be stupid to do that."

"I dunno, man. Guy took down some crazy anarchists in a matter of minutes. We got to keep our eyes open."

Suddenly, something clattered onto the floor in the middle of the group. There was a moment of surprise as they saw the small device simply fall from the sky. The shock turned into panic as the device exploded into a cloud of smoke. They were enveloped in a cloud of white in an instant.

"What the hell?" One of them spluttered.

"It's smoke!" Another declared.

Through the tear-inducing smog, one of them saw a figure descend from the ceiling, "Look out! It—" he was thrown to the ground as the figure slammed into him from above.

The next one got his head smashed into the side of the metal shipping car. The smoke was dissipating at this point. The second to last caught sight of the figure and aimed his gun. The gun was seized, and the butt was jammed into his face. The final guard aimed and fired, but the vigilante dodged to the side and threw a shuriken at him that caught him in the arm. The second of hesitation was enough for the dark figure to advance and slam the guard in the jaw, knocking him out.

In a manner of seconds, the four guards were knocked unconscious.

"That was a little too easy," Alfred commented.

"Exactly," the vigilante turned to look out into the darkness.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light covered the entire warehouse and the hum of electricity echoed through the warehouse. The vigilante had to shield his eyes for a moment at the sudden blinding light. After adjusting for a second, he lowered his hand and took in his surroundings. Hiding in the darkness, above, there was a line of hanging, supported scaffolding that had been concealed by darkness. On the scaffolding walkway, there were a handful of armed men; their guns were all trained on him. A slow clap echoed through the empty space.

"You are an impressive man," a voice carried through the warehouse with ease. He looked up on to the main scaffolding to see Oswald Cobblepot standing between two armed guards. He was dressed for the occasion with a black suit for hiding in the dark and carrying a rather large umbrella. "The way that you just pulverized my men, it was chillingly entertaining." He grinned as he looked down at the shadow-clad figure. "Don't think about escaping. From what a little anarchist told me, you like to work in the dark. I've taken care of that. So, no disappearing acts this time."

"Alfred," the vigilante muttered.

"On it," the butler returned.

"What do you want?" Bruce spoke up. The room was lit so that every corner was illuminated; he wouldn't escape without being shot at by the men with their automatic rifles. The suit could take a bullet from a handgun and maybe a rifle but not concentrated fire. He knew he wasn't going to be able to disappear, so, he just needed to buy Alfred some time. Oswald wanted something. He knew that if Cobblepot wanted him dead, he would have already fired.

Cobblepot made a playful expression, "I need to know some things. I don't know what I've done to you to make you want to ruin my business, but I intend to find out." He waved the umbrella around theatrically. "Who you're working for, why you chose me, what the hell compelled you to dress like Dracula reincarnated: basic stuff. Then I'll make an example of you for anyone else who thinks about crossing me again." He leaned forward on the railing. "So, how's about it. Who are you working for?"

"The people of Gotham City, the ones you've been building your empire on," He answered instinctually.

Oswald blinked with confusion, "Didn't think the people of Gotham had a big enough pocketbook to support a vigilante. Cut the lines please. I know that you work for someone. Who is it? Thorn? The Irish? The government? I wouldn't even be surprised if Gordon threw you in the mix."

There was a pause, so Oswald continued.

"Oh, come on! Someone has to pay for that getup! You're going to die in a couple of seconds. You might want to earn some extra heavenly reward points before you get there. Tell me the truth."

"I serve the people of Gotham when the night falls. I protect them from people like you."

"Almost there," Alfred's voice said. "Just a few more seconds."

Oswald realized that the vigilante was being brutally, honestly serious. He let out an exacerbated sigh and covered his face with his hand, "Oh great, just what I need: another nut trying to make his mark. You know what?" Oswald waved his hand. "Forget it. I've learned that your kind's reason is usually some sort of moralistic gobbledygook. No real interesting motive. Best to get rid of you now. You can kill—"

"I have to thank you," the vigilante's voice cut across the room like a knife.

Oswald paused, "Thank me for what?" Cobblepot asked falling hook, line, and sinker for the stall.

"Got it," the confirmation came through the COM.

"You just saved me the trouble of tying you to incriminating evidence," the vigilante spoke, then he whispered. "Cut the power."

The power went off suddenly. The entire facility went dark. Cobblepot inhaled a little at the surprising darkness. The only thing still illuminated was the small floodlights. The vigilante was nowhere to be seen in that spotlight. There was cursing from all around the warehouse as the once confident men started to cower.

"Get the power on, NOW!" Cobblepot screamed as he quickly thumbed the secret remote in his hand. Backup would arrive any second. Oswald knew it was only a matter of moments before—

The first scream came from the left. It was on the scaffolding though. How had he gotten up there in such a short time? Oswald started to grit his teeth to hide the panic as another man let out a cry. Someone started to fire wildly, only causing the bullets to ricochet off the metal walls around them.

"Stop it you IDIOT!" Oswald yelled.

He suddenly stopped, but Oswald doubted it was from taking orders. He knew that his men were being systematically taken down, but from the multiple directions of the screams, he couldn't pinpoint where the vigilante was at any time. He finally felt a rush of air and heard a scream to his left. One of his bodyguards went careening off the scaffolding. He whirled around to face the darkness.

A fist collided with Cobblepot's nose. His eyes watered and there was a _SNAP_. He tumbled back onto the metal deck. Through the tears and pain, he managed to spy a shadow standing over him. He was now engaged with one of his bodyguards, who was putting up a fight. Still, Oswald knew he was no match for the vigilante in the dark. It was only a matter of time before the masked man turned his attention back to him.

Suddenly, Oswald remembered something. The umbrella was still in his hand. Being sprawled back, he would have a hard time aiming it. He managed to tip his foot and prop the tip of the umbrella on his shoe. He could just barely make out the figure. He just needed to aim it right—one shot. The bodyguard was slammed into the railing and clattered to the ground. The vigilante turned to face Cobblepot again.

Bruce stepped forward with a sense of triumph, "You're coming with me Cobbl—"

_BANG! _

The deafening sound echoed through the warehouse. The vigilante reeled back for a moment; he suddenly felt an intense pain race through his right shoulder. His vision danced for a moment at the sudden shock of the impact. It felt like he had been hit by a train.

Oswald slowly started to sit up as he recovered from the kickback. A sneer crept across his face as he saw the vigilante stumble back and grip his shoulder. He took his chance. With a warrior-like blood-curdling scream, Penguin stepped forward and raised his half-destroyed umbrella to swing it. He got in a few ferocious slams before the sole of the vigilante's boot pushed him back and was sent sprawling into the railing.

In a complete daze, Oswald heard the sound of shouting and footsteps. It was about time the backup showed up! He pulled himself up using the railing.

"UP HERE!" He called immediately. "Don't let him get away!"

It was no use. In a whirl of wind, the vigilante was gone from Oswald's sight. Oswald let out a frustrated yell.

Bruce was still reeling from the shot as he recovered to the roof of the warehouse. Intense pain flashed through his shoulder. When he touched it, there was a distinct red coloration on his fingertips. He didn't know what kind of weapon had been used, but it was enough to pierce the armor. His mind was racing on trained survivor instincts. He barely registered that he had reached the car until he had entered and was speeding down the street.

"Bruce, Bruce! What happened?" Alfred called through the haze.

Bruce relayed the situation to Alfred quickly. His speech slurred a little as he tore through the city streets.

"You're going to need immediate care to stop the bleeding," Alfred emphasized.

"I can make it back," Bruce insisted. He quickly pulled off his armored glove of his left hand. He took his bare fingers and plugged the wound as best as he could through the armor.

"Lucius hasn't finished designing the auto-drive function to be that accurate. If you pass out on the way back, you're going to crash." As if to prove Alfred right, Bruce's vision went spotty and the car jerked from one lane to the next. "I don't know if I have the medical skills yet to operate on something that might have punctured an artery. You need _proper_ medical attention now."

"Alfred, I can make it back," Neither of them believed it. Bruce was simply highlighting that getting back to the cave was the only option for him right now. Bruce couldn't exactly drive to Gotham General. "There's no other option."

Alfred paused for a moment as he thought, "You're not going to like it, but there is one other option."

* * *

Selina stepped out onto the dark streets of Gotham. Her stealth suit and whip at her side signified that she was not just having a regular outing. She walked down the street to the tallest building on the block and entered the alleyway next to it. A wall kick and a hurdle later and she was climbing up the fire escape to the top. Once at the edge of the building, she felt her head start to clear as she surveyed the city below.

As the cooling summer night air hit her, she found herself muttering, "I said a couple of days, kid. If I find you goofing off in some arcade, I swear I'm going to. . ."

This was more to relax than an actual threat to Jason. A week, it had almost been a week since she saw him sprint off into the night. Plan "Go Away" had only called for him to disappear for a couple of days: five at most. Since the fifth day passed with no sign of the boy appearing on her doorstep, she had spent the next couple of days finding herself actually worrying. It just didn't feel right to wake up without the sound of him harassing her cats.

There were a couple of options that came to mind as to why he was still missing. She was sure that the kid hadn't just abandoned her. He had left the diamond in the hiding spot, that was her first clue. Her second was the fact that his stuff hadn't disappeared while she was out; it wasn't like he had taken his things with him on the heist. Kids like him never left their stuff behind. She refused to believe he was dead. He might have been a hothead, but he had enough smarts to get himself out of any immediate danger.

That only left one option: he was in serious trouble and restrained somewhere.

All she had to do, was figure out where. So many places to check for the kid—she certainly couldn't check them all. She needed to be smart, figure out who might have taken him and why. She set her jaw. There was only one place to start looking; to choose anywhere else would be to ignore basic logic. She sneered. Fate would just have to be cruel and bring them together. She certainly wasn't going to enjoy her visit.

* * *

Lee was unsurprisingly working overtime for the night. This often happened at the clinic. As much as she wanted to keep the clinic open all night, she knew that it was a dangerous impossibility. People in the Narrows were already stigmatized for seeking her help—primarily because of her background. She didn't need someone getting shanked on the steps of her clinic, and Jim worried about her safety.

The clinic was modest at best; it was refurbished from an old Narrow's building that had closed down due to No-Man's Land. She had worked overtime on patching up a last-minute broken nose from a street brawl. She honestly didn't care where they came from as long as she could help. A lot of the more gang-affiliated members of the community stayed far away from her because of Jim's position and the fact that police cars patrolled that part of the Narrows more than anywhere else.

The late night would have normally been a lonely one after everyone else on her staff left, but she wasn't alone. The young brown-copper-haired Barbara Lee sat upon the patient chair as she scribbled into her notebook. Barbara had a business event and Jim was predictably unavailable, so neither had been able to watch over her. That was alright in Lee's book; she didn't mind the girl's company. Despite her technically being a stepmother to the young girl, she had never felt distant or awkward talking to her. Barbara Lee always had a rather mellow if occasionally sharp personality. Lee found it easy to hold a conversation, and she was very much a part of her crazy, extended family.

"So, how's homework going?" Lee asked casually as she counted up the sedative pill bottles—she loved the people of the Narrows, but sometimes their kleptomaniacal habits were hard to control.

Barbara shrugged, "Good. School hasn't started really, it's just simple stuff right now."

Lee glanced over at her homework, "Oh, so pre-calc is simple now?"

Barbara smirked a little, "Last year I told mom I was bored, and she told my teacher that I could need more advanced homework. When she ran out of that, she gave me a high school textbook."

"Ok," Lee said. "Just don't get too smart too soon. I would still like to be smarter than you for at least two more years."

Barbara shrugged, "It's just math. The other stuff doesn't make too much sense to me yet. Computers are fun though. Speaking of which," She licked her lip before diving into her backpack and pulling out a white release form. "Can you sign the form so that I can join the computer club?"

Lee was taken aback by her sudden question as she took the forum, "Oh, sure. You sure know how to smoothly insert what you want into the conversations," She paused. "Why didn't you ask your mom?" There were a couple of opportunities between her school and the clinic that she could have asked Barbara Kean for a signature.

Barbara shrugged, "I don't know. Mom's pretty busy nowadays; I don't want to bother her with it."

Lee made a concerned expression, "Hey, I'll sign it for you if you want, but," she turned so that she was seriously facing the young girl, "know that you could ask your mom for anything. She named you after three of the people you can trust most; she put her name first, right?"

Barbara Lee Gordon nodded, "Right. But—" She shrugged. "I don't know. It doesn't seem mom's speed. She's all Ms. Serious Businesswoman or fun-time mom, there's not really much in-between. It's hard to get her attention sometimes."

Lee frowned a little. Though most of Kean's mental problems had been cured or treated over the years, the state still required that she take medicine to control herself. Barbara had very little say in the matter; she was already on incredibly thin ice. The only thing that had kept her afloat was Jim's testimony about how she had sheltered people during the chaos of No Man's land and how she should be forgiven for past offenses. Still, the medication they put her on often left her at the two extremes of either incredibly focused or unfocused. Lee knew it was hard on both Kean and her daughter but it was the only way to keep Kean on the straight and narrow.

"Sometimes I think that she's more like the crazy aunt and you're the mom," Barbara Lee grinned a little. "I mean, how many kids can say that their mom owned a nightclub? That's such a crazy aunt move."

Lee was about to answer with a kind rebuttal but was interrupted by a sudden sound. It came from the main lobby. It was a thudding sound as something gracelessly stepped onto the creaky wooden paneling of the main room. Lee jolted up; she had locked the door once the sun had gone down like her procedure dictated—it was too dangerous to leave her door open after dark. Another step came with the sound of creeping. Barbara went pale as she came to the same conclusion as Lee; someone had broken into the clinic.

In a whirl of maternal instincts, Lee quickly picked up Barbara and went over to the only other door out of the small patient room. It was a small closet. It was the best she could do right then; the only window to the room had metal bars to prevent thieves. She gracelessly shoved the young girl into the closet full of medicine and into a space that would only fit her.

"Stay in here, don't say a word," Lee ordered quickly in a low tone and slid the closet door shut.

Lee glanced around for her next step in protecting herself. She felt her heart seize as she dove into her lab coat pocket and didn't find her cellphone. She remembered that she had left her cellphone in her office to charge; there were no phone lines in the room. She felt a pang of panic run through her chest as she realized the situation. Springing into action, she grabbed a pair of surgical scissors that had been left out after a quick stitch job. She then flicked the lights off and retreated back into the room so that the examination table was between her and the door. She flipped the scissors so that they were held backward to make it easy to make a quick jab and a run. She brought the scissors close to her chest.

All she could do was wait.

Suddenly, a shadow crossed the door window. Whoever was there was at least six feet tall. The door handle jiggled open and she felt her blood freeze. From the closet, Barbara let out a sharp gasp. Lee prayed the intruder didn't hear. The door opened and the heavy footfall entered the room. The tall black figure seemed huge in the dimly lit room. Lee couldn't feel herself breath anymore.

She had a suspicion as to who was in front of her. Gordon had warned her about the Bat and from what she saw from the museum video that the GCPD put out, this guy was it. Her breath came to her faster now as the shadow-clad figure approached. Had he come for her since Gordon was hunting him down? Was he going to hold her ransom or worse kill her as a warning against those who got in his way? Gordon had a love/hate relationship with the Bat since he had saved his life. Now, she forgot that as he stepped into her clinic uninvited. She was glad that she hid Barbara in the closet away from the psychopath.

"I don't know who the hell you are, but you better leave," Lee kept a low, serious tone as she clutched the scissors in her hand. It wasn't the most menacing of weapons, but she hoped it was enough to keep him away.

"Dr. Tompkins," The figure spoke in a distorted voice; he sounded weak. "I need—"

Lee knew she couldn't let him control the situation; she couldn't wait to hear his demands, "Get out now; the police are already on their way."

The figure reached up and tapped something on his neck, "Lesley, I need your help."

Lee stilled for a moment. Only now did she notice the red coloration of blood on the plated armor. He needed immediate attention. That wasn't the only thing that stunned her. His voice: it was familiar.

"Lee, please," the man saw the hesitation in her eyes and reached up to pull off the cowl.

Lee paused because she couldn't believe that she was seeing the man who was bleeding in front of her, "Bruce?"

* * *

**Woah, I did not mean for the chapter to turn out this long, but I am glad it did!**

**Now that Gotham season 5 is out, I'm going to try and finish one of my other stories involving Gotham. I'll keep updating this one, it's just that the other one will take precedence until it is finished—which should only be about 4 or 5 more chapters. It kind of ties into this story (or at least how I perceive certain characters), so I want to finish it before I go too far into this one.**

**If you're interested, the story is called _Best Friends._**

**Anyway, I'll aim to update this story in a week or two so I don't leave you on a cliffhanger too long ****(I have a lull in assignments so I can dedicate it to writing both of the stories)****. Thanks for reading!**


	11. Licking the Wounds

11\. Licking the Wounds

Lee operated in silence on the darkly clad figure. After quickly sterilizing what she could, she had sat the man down in the medical examination chair. Bruce had removed the armor while Lee had gotten some gloves and a surgical mask on. There hadn't been much time to prep for surgery, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She shouldn't have been doing surgery in her small clinic, but she knew that he wasn't going to accept her offer to call an ambulance. A number of her patients refused to go to hospitals for various reasons. So, she often found herself doing small, emergency operations to save their lives just like she was now. She had managed to stop the immediate bleeding and extract all of the shrapnel that had pierced the armor. It was a quick job, but some part of her doubted her abilities. She still felt like telling him to go to the hospital to get it checked, but she knew she would have some convincing to do.

Bruce wasn't kind to his nerves. No pain killers, he claimed it would make his head fuzzy. She couldn't imagine he was thinking straight with the blood loss and pain, but somehow, he managed to keep lucid and gain more lucidness with the blood he was receiving through the IV. He either stared off into the middle distance deep in thought or at Lee's handiwork.

"What the hell hit you?" Lee finally broke the silence that had persisted for the past thirty minutes as she finished up the last of her stitches and started to dab away the blood around his wound.

"Not sure," he answered quickly. "It was a concealed weapon. It was enough to pierce the armor with a direct hit, and the spread suggests that it is based on a shotgun in its origin."

"Seems rather centralized for a shotgun." Lee had seen quite a few in her day. Most of the victims were from the street themselves. Usually, she'd have her staff call an ambulance because they didn't have the capabilities to take care of emergency patients, but that didn't stop them from saving a few lives regardless. Bruce was lucky she had the wherewithal and some of the equipment to perform some quick surgery.

"I was rather close to the shot."

"Well, whatever you're wearing, it deflected some of the shrapnel and absorbed a lot of the force. It doesn't seem like any of your bones are seriously fractured. Though you do seem to have a hairline fracture on your collarbone, you'll need an X-ray to make sure," She kept the conversation clinical.

She paused for a moment, realizing the strangeness in the conversation that she was deliberately ignoring: the whole vigilante part. Neither of them had addressed it. They didn't want to. Lee had initially been very shocked at the reveal. At first, she thought it might have been some sort of costume—that he had imitated the vigilante for some reason. Once she saw the multiple latent scars on his body, the nature of it seemed to become more evident. She had to wrap her mind around Bruce and the vigilante being the same. The playboy she had met weeks earlier at the Wayne Tower opening seemed so different from the man sitting in her room. She felt that, if she questioned it, she wouldn't like the answer. Lee sighed. She needed to know.

She set her tools down and looked at him, "Bruce, what the hell are you doing?"

He didn't answer. He looked down at his hands for a moment.

"Let me rephrase," Lee sighed as she tried to organize her thoughts into a coherent question. "Why are you, Bruce Wayne, someone I've known since he was barely a teenager, dressed like the vigilante, shot up, and in my office?"

"Penguin has been stockpiling weapons for sale. I found what would have been a promising bust. I decided that something needed to be done." He said it matter-of-factly. It reminded her of Jim when he was explaining cases to his subordinates. But Bruce wasn't Jim.

"So, you just waltzed in there and took them on as a vigilante?" Lee cut in quickly. "In what way does this seem like a feasible—sane thing to even consider?"

"Dr. Tompkins, I—"

She held her hands up, "That was dangerous, Bruce. You should have called the police. You should have—no. You're the vigilante; you've been doing this for a while." She took a moment to look off deep in thought. Bruce was in way over his head. She needed him to know that. She'd heard all about the vigilante, how much he inspired fear in the underworld. She couldn't believe that he would go to such lengths. . .

"Lee."

Lee realized, "Gordon was complaining the other night about how he thought he hadn't rubbed off on you. Now that I see you, I know that _too much _of him has rubbed off on you."

"It's not the worst thing that could have happened," Bruce smiled a little.

"I should have caught this," Lee rambled. "You used to be a very different child. You used to rush out into danger, constantly try to solve your own problems. We put way too much responsibility on your shoulders during No Man's Land. I should have seen the path that you were going down and stopped you. Now, you're bleeding out in my office. I have your blood on my hands, literally." She held up her blood-stained gloves. "This is just a new chink in a pattern of self-destructive behavior!"

"What else would you have me do?"

"I don't know! Fund a charity, campaign for mayor, become a cop, anything but this!" Lee took a breath as she realized how frazzled she was becoming. She tried to speak in a calmer tone, "Bruce, in my opinion as a medical professional and a trained therapist, this is not healthy behavior. I highly recommend that you find another more constructive outlet for your tendencies."

"Thank you for the recommendation Dr. Tompkins," Bruce nodded sincerely, "but I don't think I'll take it."

"So, your big plan is to—what—fight crime as a vigilante? It's really working out for you!" She nodded towards the wounds. "You were this close to rupturing your axillary artery."

"At least I'm doing something to help," He insisted. "Gordon is a good man, but the crime in the city isn't going away. I think I can do something about it."

"Bruce," Lee sighed. "Gordon's just as frustrated as you with the crime, but it's the same in every major city. Nothing gets better when we take the law into our hands."

"I'm not sure the people would agree with that 'Doc.'"

"Don't compare this to my past. I was definitely not in my right mind. I don't even remember half of it. I dated Nygma for crying out loud. But that's not the point. I was unable to help them effectively. I changed tactics," she gestured around. "This place was my new tactic, and it's working, Bruce. Find something like this where you can really help people. It doesn't help to take the criminals on your own. There will always be another bad guy."

"Then, I will always be there to stop them."

"Bruce, do you hear yourself? That is an ego talking, an ego that you can't possibly hope to satiate with this kind of behavior," Lee looked distraught suddenly. "Bruce, please, for the love of God, don't do this. I cannot bear to see you dead in the papers. That would kill Alfred; it'd kill Gordon to find out. Please stop this."

"I can't until I've been able to make Gotham safe."

"And when will that be accomplished?" Lee asked.

"Perhaps, never," Bruce acknowledged.

"So, that's it? You're just never going to stop doing this?"

"I can't afford to stop. This city—"

"Bruce, there are several ways to fix the city! Don't pick the one that's going to lead you down a path that you won't return from."

"I'm sorry, Lee. But I don't think I will stop."

"Damn it, Bruce!" She realized she was raising her voice. She slammed her hand on the mayo table as she tried desperately to knock some sense into the young man. She heard a noise from the closet area. In a second, the door popped itself open.

"Aunt Lee?" Lee whirled to see Barbara peering out of the closet. There was worry in her voice. "Are you ok?"

"Barbara don't look," Lee commanded as she realized the situation and stuck a hand in front of Bruce's face to hide his identity.

"It's fine," Bruce nodded to Lee with a bit of concern. "She's heard you say my name several times already."

Lee sighed and gestured for Barbara to come out of the closet. The young girl stepped out with a look of worried confusion. When she saw Bruce, a look of recognition crossed her face before she glanced over to Lee for confirmation.

Lee just nodded and sighed. "I guess I'll call Alfred—assuming he knows."

"He knows," Bruce nodded. "He's already on his way."

"Figures, I'll just," She almost ran her fingers through her hair before remembering the blood. "I'll just clean up. I don't need your blood in here." She stood up and went to the sink in the room.

There was a moment of silence. Barbara examined the vigilante with an analytical eye. She didn't seem afraid—Bruce thought. Instead, he felt like she was sizing him up. She seemed to come to a conclusion and stepped in his direction.

"You're the guy from the TV," Barbara nodded as she stepped cautiously closer to him.

"Yes." Bruce was unsure of what she meant, but she supposedly recognized him.

"You're a pretty big deal despite being gone for ten years," Barbara shrugged. "Not as big a deal as my mom, though."

Bruce smirked, "I heard. Wayne tower won't be the tallest building when she's done."

"That was her goal. She set out from the beginning to do so once she found out how tall you were building yours." Yeah, that sounded like Barbara Kean. "Dad says you're a pretty good guy, said he knew you when you were a kid. I've seen photos of him and you." She paused for a moment as she examined him, "But you're also the vigilante bat-guy, right?"

"And what does your dad say about him?"

Barbara screwed up her face, "He doesn't know what to think, honestly. He rarely talks to me about work, but he's not great when it comes to creating a password to his computer."

"Barb, I've told you not to snoop." Lee sighed. "There are all sorts of things in the police database that are not supposed to be seen by sixths graders."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Barbara said dismissively before she turned back to Bruce. "Dad's unsure of you. He doesn't know if he can trust you, but I don't think that you're priority targeting right now. He said that you saved him during the gala night. So I think that's demotivated their search a little."

Lee paused for a moment. She hadn't immediately thought of it, but Barbara brought up a good point. Bruce had saved Jim. According to Jim, Anarky was milliseconds away from blowing away him and the rest of the guests at Bruce's manor. However, he was saved by the Batman. Lee lowered her gaze. If Batman hadn't existed, Jim would have been dead, no doubt.

" Well, that's nice to know," Bruce smiled a little. He sat up but grunted in pain.

"Here, this should dull the pain," Lee handed him a pill bottle. Bruce looked up at her, "Don't worry, I'm not going to drug you and turn you in, alright. Just take two."

Bruce took the bottle but didn't take the pills. Suddenly, there was a loud knock coming from the door leading to the side alleyway; the knock was patterned and synchronized.

"Alfred," Bruce said and strained to sit up. The room spun around him.

"I'll go get him," Lee said as she exited the room. "You stay seated."

She opened the alleyway door to find the butler standing there along with a black car. They exchanged a brief hello before Alfred came in to retrieve Bruce. Lee found herself chastising the billionaire as he pulled out the IV and tried to stand on his own. Several moments later, Alfred was helping Bruce off of the table and out the door. Lee grabbed the armor that Bruce had taken off; it was surprisingly light for what it had been able to deflect. Alfred quickly threw his coat over Bruce's figure to disguise him from any potential onlookers, which were unlikely at this hour. They quickly shuffled to the back door and escorted him out into the night air.

"The car," Bruce gestured down the alleyway. Lee looked over to see a dark—almost invisibly dark—vehicle parked in an indent of the alley.

"We'll worry about that later," Alfred assured him.

"I've got a tarp," Lee said. "I can cover it for you."

"No need, I will get it out of here before the night is over."

Bruce glanced back at her for a moment before putting his head down and moving towards the car. She couldn't help but feel like Bruce was worried about something. Again, the gala came to mind.

"Bruce?" He turned to look at her. "Thank you for what you did at the gala. You saved Jim's life. . . I won't tell him about tonight or anything. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all."

"Never doubted it for a minute," Bruce flashed her a smile. "You're a good doctor, Lee."

Alfred settled Bruce into the car and closed the door. As he rounded his way around the vehicle, he nodded politely to Lee. Lee gave him some antibiotics and a prescription for Bruce to prevent any kind of infection.

"Thank you for what you've been able to do, Dr. Tompkins," There was gratitude in his voice.

"Is Bruce doing alright, Alfred?" Lee asked. "Like honestly, alright?"

Alfred gave her a small smile, "He's doing just fine."

"Alfred."

"I'm keeping a good watch over him, Dr. Tompkins. Despite tonight's events, he's rather good at keeping himself from being too gravely injured. Don't concern yourself with him."

Lee put a hand to her head, "Just. . . take care of him, Alfred. I can. . . if he needs my help, he doesn't need to ask twice. But I'm not a miracle worker, so he can't come in with his arm half-blown-off."

Lee was suddenly pushed from behind, and Barbara stepped forward.

"Almost forgot this," She said as she handed Alfred the cowl that Bruce had dropped to the floor.

"Thank you, Ms. Gordon," Alfred smiled at the young girl. He said goodbye to Lee and entered the car. In a moment, the small black car peeled off into the streets and into the night. Lee let out a long sigh.

Lee turned to Barbara, "Not a word to anyone about this. Not your mom, not your friends, and especially not your father."

Barbara mimicked zipping her lip and throwing away the key.

Lee sighed, "Good girl."

* * *

"And then I caught that bastard right in the arm!" Oswald waved his hands around along with the remains of the umbrella as he told his story.

The man paced the room in a furious ecstasy leaving the worried medical attendant playing a game of catch up as he followed him around the room. Edward had been suddenly subjected to the tale as Oswald had stormed down the stairs not ten minutes prior. The man had immediately launched into a recount of the evening's events. It was a wild and invigorated tale, but Ed found it rather off-putting that Oswald's nose was broken at a distractingly horrifying angle.

"He was sent tumbling to the floor; I saw the pain in his eyes!" Oswald obliviously swung his arm back, almost slamming the assistant in the face. The medical assistant flashed Ed an exasperated glance after what had to have been the thirtieth attempt to set the broken nose. Ed nodded and stepped forward.

"Hey, Oswald," He said as he flexed his fingers.

Oswald glanced over. In a swift movement, Ed grabbed the stubby man's broken nose and tweaked it harshly back into place. A high-pitched whine escaped the Penguin's throat, and his hand flicked to his nose. It was more shock than anything. He inhaled slowly. Then exhaled.

"Thank you," He mustered through the involuntary tears.

"You're welcome," Ed shrugged, and the physician finally had the Penguin's attention. He took a seat in a small chair, and the physician started to prod Oswald. "Continue."

"Then the coward escaped," Oswald winced as the attendant started to dab away the blood on his face. "But I got him. I got that bastard," He hissed as the swab cleared some of the dried blood with alcohol. "I got him good."

The Riddler's face fell as he realized something, "So, you didn't kill him?"

"No, he got away but—"

"Oh," Ed seemed a mixture of elated and disappointed. "Well, that's . . . since you're here anyway, I have a few questions to ask then."

A little confused but thinking Ed was going to ask about his triumph, Penguin smiled, "Ask away."

"When you were 'interrogating' him, did he happen to say anything, something that could reveal his background?"

Oswald smirked, "Nothing but the usual diatribe you would expect. Justice, the law, protecting the city. He doesn't seem to be working for anyone—which is baffling. He must be completely nuts."

"So, a fascination with justice," Ed started to pace as the thoughts went through his mind like a well-oiled machine. "Perhaps he's a past police officer who became disillusioned with the system. What was his build?"

"My men slightly exaggerated with the ten-foot claim," Oswald rocked his head side to side. "But at least six foot. Not skinny, not really giant or bulky either."

"That'll bring the list down a bit," Ed mumbled as he turned towards his corkboard and started removing pictures. "Any distinguishing features?"

Becoming annoyed at the line of questioning, Oswald answered sarcastically, "The cape and bat ears were distinguishing."

"You know what I mean. A mark, some skin, something—"

"Ed, stop." Oswald waved his hand to dismiss the line of questioning. He glanced at the medical attendant with a look that said 'scram' and the attendant left. "What's this about? You should be glad. Tonight, I proved the Bat can bleed."

"But he's not dead," the Riddler said simply.

"Edward," Penguin shot him a dejected look, "you have to take some joy in the little things!" He reached out and patted his friend on the shoulder with a smile. "Come on, Ed. Enjoy the moment of victory."

Edward blinked and straightened at the gesture, "I admit I can be a little task-oriented—"

"A little?"

"Ok," Edward admitted. "I am rather obtuse in the field of revelry. I often don't celebrate things that I should. But he is not beaten, so I will not celebrate."

Oswald's frowned suddenly, "I bet if the Riddler had shot Batman, you would be just teeming with enthusiasm."

Ed turned back to Oswald, "That's not fair. I—" he paused for a moment as he thought. "Well, I would celebrate, but only because I would plan circles around him. This would have been just step one. Maybe I could have had a bottle of champagne for part one going right, but I wouldn't go too far. I'd still have the rest of my plan to look forward to."

"So, you don't think I have a plan," Oswald felt like he came to the crux of the matter. "I'll have you know that I have my men checking through the hospitals for anyone suffering from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. He couldn't have gone far with such an injury without medical help."

"That doesn't sound like him—he's gotten this far without being caught. He can't have gone through all the fights he has gone through without help. He's either got connections or is the world's greatest one-handed surgeon. It's unlikely you'll find him at a hospital, even in disguise."

"Sure, you just know how he thinks, don't you," Oswald sniped. "You forget that I'm the one winning that I'm the one who shot him."

"Yet, you forget that you shot him with _my _umbrella!" Ed emphasized. "Tell me, if you didn't have my gift, would you be talking to Jim Gordon or me right now?" Ed sighed. "I'm saying that you might not be thinking about this from every angle. You need to find a way to corner him."

"So, you think you're better than me," Penguin hissed. "You think you could do a better job?"

"I believe that I've evolved as a criminal. I've been places Oswald—I've worked through the inner workings of multiple underworlds."

"What am I? Chopped liver?"

"No, but you might be rusty."

"Rusty! I've been maintaining my empire through prison bars. Tell me you would do as well against the constant threat of Thorne or other parties? I am an establishment, and I don't plan on being treated with any less respect just because I've been locked up for a decade." He huffed and limped towards the staircase. "I thought I would come and share my victory with a friend. I'm sorry I tried."

"Oswald, it's just." But the man was gone.

In retrospect, Ed thought maybe he was a little critical of Oswald. Maybe it was the time spent away from one another that made it hard for them to communicate sometimes. Maybe the competition drove a wedge between them. He pushed the thought to the side as a headache started to form. Oswald and his emotions. Ed sighed and turned back to his corkboard.

"Connections, justice—hmm. Who does that sound like?" Ed tapped his chin.

* * *

"There we are, easy now," Alfred said as he helped Bruce ease into the sofa in the parlor. As he set the man down, he let out a small grunt in exertion. Bruce sat back into the sofa and allowed a bit of rest into his expression. "Are you sure that the bed wouldn't be a better spot to rest?"

"I don't think I'm ready for sleep just yet, Alfred," Bruce said with an almost apologetic expression. He knew how much he had probably stressed Alfred out in the last couple of hours.

"Ah, thought I'd finally roped you into using the bed for once," Alfred sighed; he went over to start the fireplace and add some warmth to the room. "Blood loss does not deter you one bit."

"I'll go to bed in a bit Alfred," Bruce nodded with a weak smile. "I just need to think over what Lee said." Plus, the pain medication hadn't kicked in yet, he knew he probably wouldn't be able to sleep without it.

Alfred nodded, "I'll go make some tea then, nothing better to allow for clear-headed brooding."

Alfred left the room, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts and the crackling fire. It wasn't like Lee's sentiment was new. He had had his doubts at first about the cause and wondered if it was the best course of action. However, he would always go back to Gordon—how he had always been at the forefront of any and all conflict. How many lives would have been lost if Gordon hadn't been as proactive in his work? How many more would have been saved if he wasn't held back by the rules of the corrupt police force? He was only set in his findings with every person he shielded from potential danger. He couldn't abandon the Batman—not now, not when everything was just starting. But that didn't mean that she was completely wrong. Lee had proposed alternative ways to help Gotham. These things weren't the work of Batman, but maybe they could be the work of someone else. Bruce liked the idea. Finally, Bruce Wayne would have a use if he dedicated his time to philanthropy.

Suddenly, his thoughts were disrupted by a slight breeze in the room. He glanced over to see the window open. Strange. Bruce stiffened a bit as he started to focus. He forced himself with a great effort off of the sofa and to his feet. Bruce slowly made his way over to the fireplace. The new flame was welcoming to his rather stiff body, but that was not the reason he went there. In a swift motion, Bruce reached with his good arm and pulled out the fire poker from its holder and whirled around.

"Come on out!" Bruce called into the darkness of the room. "I know you're here."

There was a moment of hesitation. The breeze seemed to stop, and the room froze with only the fire to light one side. Bruce had an idea—a hope—as to who it was, but he didn't want to underestimate them if he was wrong. From the dark corner of the room, a figure stepped out. She was in the same black cat-suit she had been in during the robbery several nights ago.

"Where's the kid?" She asked directly.

"Selina," Bruce breathed at the sight of her; he allowed the poker's tip to drop. A genuine smile threatened to cross his face. There was a moments pause before he spoke again, "It's good to see—"

"Yeah, no chit-chat, Bruce," Selina waved him off with a hand. "I just want to know where you've put the kid."

Bruce's eyebrows knitted together, "Selina I'm just—"

"Didn't I make myself clear?" Selina stopped him as a scowl crossed her expression. "Where the hell is the kid? I know you took him."

There was a pause, then Bruce put the poker back into its holder, "You mean the child you hired to rob a museum." There was a hint of disapproval in his voice. He hadn't assumed he was that important to her.

"Yeah. Don't pretend that it's shocking to you. They start younger every day," She glared at him and held her hand so that her claws glinted in the low light. "If you're not going to tell me, then I'm going to— "

"He's at the Falcone Orphanage," Bruce held up his hands in peace. "I put him there after I found him, and he should still be there if his injury hasn't healed yet."

She raised a brow at "injury" and huffed, "Really, you had to put him _there_?" She rolled her eyes and made her way over to the window. "Whatever, bye."

"Selina," Bruce stepped forward to stop her, "Wait."

She stopped and glared back at him, "Why?"

"We need to talk," Bruce said with a sense of seriousness. Then he softened, "Can't we just talk?"

"Talk?" Selina huffed with annoyance. "What _do _you want to talk about, Bruce?" Selina raised an eyebrow. "Want to start with your new hobby: parading around in a costume in the middle of the night?" She growled again. "Let's keep this short: stay out of my way, don't touch the kid again, and there won't be a reason to talk."

"Then return the diamond," Selina stopped again. She thought that it would have been her final stinger before leaving—but Bruce had a way of reeling her back in. He was demanding that she give up _her_ steal. Oh, well, if he wanted a talk, she was going to give him one.

"No, you don't get to do that," Selina whipped around. "You don't get to just show up and expect everything to go your way. You don't get to order me around and demand my prize. I've spent ten years prying Bruce Wayne out of my life. You can't just come back in and expect to call the shots."

"Then I won't," Bruce said in an almost infuriatingly calm demeanor. "Just return the diamond."

"Not a chance in hell," Selina grit her teeth.

Bruce paused for a moment, "Selina, if you need the money, I can help—"

God, he could be so patronizing!

"It's not about the money, Bruce," Selina cocked her head to the side.

"Then, why?"

"Maybe I just like stealing things, Bruce. Just like you seem to enjoy pummeling criminals."

Bruce seemed to set his jaw. He knew that was a possible motive. With what he had been able to find, she probably had enough to set her up for the rest of her life. She enjoyed the game, the chase. He was glad to hear she wasn't being extorted or otherwise indebted to someone, but another part didn't like that it was apart of her nature. It was something that was eventually going to get her caught when she got sloppy. Worse still, it could get her killed.

Selina tsked as she saw the discontent in his eyes, "You're just disappointed I didn't stay at the manor and wait for you like a good little girl. You don't like that I've made my own way in the underworld, that's why you're getting on my case."

"It doesn't matter whether or not I like it. It's my duty."

"Oh, duty? We're bringing out the big guns already." She didn't hide that he was annoying her. Every self-serious line that came from him just made her blood boil. He acted like he had some grandiose purpose to hide his selfish desires. "Your duty includes protecting the rich fops that owned the diamond? What is it exactly that you think you do?"

"I have to protect the city from criminal elements," He said it with such flat seriousness. "No matter who they are or what they do."

"Oh? You _protect_ the city," Selina rolled her eyes. "Well, color me surprised. You've done a fine job of that the past ten years. You've just been protecting it all over the place. Don't kid yourself. You left on the first plane out of this dump and never looked back."

"Of course not," Bruce insisted. "I would have never left unless it was absolutely necessary."

Absolutely necessary—whatever that meant. Bruce had always been the type to switch priorities. One minute, they were doing fine, enjoying the Gotham scenery and hanging out in her newest crib, the next, Bruce was cut off, distant, in Switzerland. He was with her; then, he wasn't. His "absolutely necessary" just never made sense to her. What was "absolutely necessary" about leaving Gotham? She knew, if she never asked, she would never know the answer.

"Then . . . Why'd you leave?" There was more emotion in her voice then she would admit. "Why'd you leave if the _city_ was so damn important to you?"

Bruce was quiet for several moments before looking out the window towards the city in the distance, "I saw Gotham burn, and I couldn't stop it." He turned towards the window. "People starved. I saw the house that my parents built get blown to smithereens. Gotham was bombarded by the military. Everything was destroyed."

Selina scoffed, "So, you had nothing tying you here."

"No, I had _everything_ tying me here," Bruce shook his head and looked back at her. "I saw the city destroyed, and I realized that I had not even begun to lose everything that I cared about. There was Bane's assault; we could have all died in an instant. Jeremiah decided to demonstrate that I still had so much more to lose still, and he almost took it all away: Gordon, Alfred, Lee, you. Worst of all, it happened because some psychopaths saw something in me that I couldn't understand." Bruce looked down. "I couldn't let it happen again."

Selina felt like she knew what he was talking about; it was all so terrifying when it had happened. Bruce did seem to have the worst luck when it came to the deranged criminals in the city. They were like moths to Bruce's flame. Part of her always blamed his "do-gooder" attitude, but sometimes she just wondered if there was some universal conspiracy against him. It explained his almost paranoid personality shift. But, when everything settled and nothing more came to haunt them, he decided to leave everyone regardless. He left her with the damages that had been done. He made a selfish decision. He didn't care how it affected everyone around him. He was just using his hang-ups as an excuse. No, she couldn't let him off that easily.

"Oh yes, you're just _special_, Bruce. Come on, there was crazy before you were here, and there was plenty of crazy after you left."

"But No Man's Land, that was my fault. It happened because of me. That event has scarred this city for years. The blast marks from military missiles are still evident on the walls. No one was able to contain what happened—especially me. Even with my training from Alfred, even with the new gadgets Lucius was giving me, I knew that I had so much I had to learn. I needed to be better, stronger! I needed to make sure that no one got hurt ever again, that No Man's Land was a thing of the past." He sighed. "That's why I left, to become someone who could stop something like that from happening ever again—someone who could strike fear into the hearts of criminals and send them back into the holes from which they came."

"And that someone just so happened to have a Bat-themed costume involved?" Selina huffed. "There are people with issues, and then there's you, Bruce."

Bruce knew she was hiding her true hurt under snide comments, "I don't expect anyone to understand."

"Oh yeah, you're just so complicated and sophisticated. We mere mortals could never feel the way you do, Bruce. It's never simple."

"Do you have another theory?" Bruce countered with a hint of agitation.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Selina stepped forward. "You couldn't be content with winning for once. You couldn't be satisfied with everything being resolved. Every bad guy had led to another, and you didn't like that there was a pretty little bow on the whole affair. You had to find some other problem to distract you because the truth would never be good enough. And... You couldn't be content with me—or anyone else for that matter." She huffed. "So, no, I'm not going to return your diamond. You're going to just have to take it, just like you took away everything else away from me."

Bruce paused for a moment. She hid it well, but he knew her well enough to tell that he had caused her a lot of pain. He knew he had not handled the incident with grace (that was an understatement—he mused gloomily). She was hurt by him. It was the kind of wound that had been festering in silence and bitterness; it couldn't be healed in a few words. She was different, harder. It wasn't hard to imagine that it was his fault. But the least he could do was apologize to her.

"Selina," Bruce started to say. "I'm sorry—"

"I don't want to hear it." Selina scoffed. "I'm going."

She walked over to the open window and stepped on the ledge. Bruce let out a defeated sigh. Selina turned back to look at him one last time. He was already taking the poker and stoking the fire. If she had it her way, she would want this to be the last time they ever met. If that were the case, she knew she couldn't have any regrets, nothing that would force her to come back and question him again. As she pondered the reality, a final question boiled up in her.

"Why didn't you say goodbye?" She paused for a moment before adding. "You said goodbye to Gordon and Alfred, but you said nothing to me. All I got was a letter. Why?"

There was a long silence before he answered.

"If I had told you face to face, I wouldn't have had the will to leave."

Bruce felt the words catch in his throat. What else could he say? That she was on his mind almost every day after he had left? That he had considered many times giving up and going home to find her? Even now, the thought of reaching out to her and expressing what he felt. No, he couldn't. He couldn't reel her in again; it would be selfish. He knew she was a thief. He knew she wasn't going to give that up with a simple confession. He couldn't compromise his burden for his own personal feelings. He knew it wouldn't be fair to either of them. It was too complicated. He couldn't have her hurt again.

"Selina," He turned back around to see if she was still there, but she had disappeared. Somehow, her disappearance felt worse. He bit back some disappointment as she left. Honestly, if he had a choice between the two, he wished he had gotten shot again.

She vaulted out the window and landed on the manor grounds. She didn't look back up at the window. She wouldn't look back, just like he hadn't. She'd vanish without a trace. Before she could disappear into the night, she saw a figure standing stoically a few feet away from her. She simply lowered her head and strode past him.

"Ms. Kyle," Alfred greeted as she walked past him. "I figured the front door wasn't going to be your choice of exit."

"Alfred," She just nodded as she passed him. "Still need that cane?"

"Only on the longer walks," he smiled and trailed after her. She slowed her pace so that he could follow her.

"I'm not apologizing," Selina tried to route off any potential conversation before she reached the gate.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of an apology," Alfred said. "I just don't think both sides are being equally represented. Bruce tends to hide away his feelings."

"You sure you're not mistaking 'hiding away' for 'doesn't care,' Alfred? He's got more feelings for his 'duty' than anything else."

"He's a bit . . . difficult at the moment," Alfred admitted. "I believe that he's on guard. For what, I couldn't tell you, but I know that he has more to say then what he allowed out during his conversation with you."

"How do you figure that?" Selina chided.

She was surprised when the butler presented a wad of letters and postcards. She glanced down at them; she could barely make out the scrawling in the moon-aided dim lighting. Paris, Kyoto, Minsk, Hong Kong, Delhi, Rio—hell even Timbuktu were just a few of the places that were on the postcards. Among them were short, almost telegraph-like messages.

_I'm sorry I won't be home for Christmas, Alfred._

_I miss you, Al._

_Let Gordon know that he was a great inspiration to me._

There were a few about Selina.

_Can you make sure Selina knows that I'm thinking about her?_

_I know you can't write back, but I hope she's doing alright._

She raised an eyebrow at one of them. Finally, they arrived at the wall dividing Wayne Manor from the rest of the world.

"He's a bit more straightforward when he's writing," Alfred shrugged as Selina inspected the postcards. "He'd been sending them to me for the entire course of his travels. These are just a few. I have more, longer letters in the manor."

Alfred found the postcards suddenly handed back to him.

"Keep 'em. I don't need his excuses," She sighed before saying with a softer tone. "See you, Alfred."

With that, she vaulted over the Wayne manor exterior wall. She landed on the other side and started down the road towards the city. As she walked, she took a glance at her hand at the one thing she stole, one of the postcards. It was crinkly, rough around the edges. Some random picture of a mountain was on the other side. It was dated about seven years after Bruce had left. It was the message that had caught her eye.

_If you can find her, tell Selina I love her._

She sighed, "This is stupid." She tucked the postcard under her catsuit and continued down the road.

* * *

Selina found Jason in a rather pathetic state. She had gone immediately to the Falcone Orphanage. On her way, she was thinking about the best course of action to rescue the boy. She was surprised when a string of lights was found illuminating the rooftop of the orphanage. She went to the roof for a closer look. For some reason, Christmas lights were strung around a small poll. Jason was sitting asleep while leaned up against the poll. The soft glow of the Christmas lights illuminated him in a tiny cocoon of blankets. He seemed to shiver a bit as she approached; he obviously hadn't intended to end up asleep on the rooftop.

"Come on, kid, get up," Selina shook him a bit.

"Batman?" Jason mumbled as he slowly started to wake. "I'm here to warn you. I-I have to tell you something. Penguin, he's planning something bi—" he looked up and was met with familiar eyes.

"No, kid," Selina sighed. "Sorry to disappoint."

Jason, now more awake, just looked down at his hands; he seemed upset about something. She figured he was disappointed. _Damn it, Bruce. Disappointing us both. He's too quiet. What did you do to the kid?_

"Come on, Jay," Selina sighed. "Let's go home."

* * *

Two men stood outside the theatre. They took a moment, one, a blonde man, looked down at the note in his hand before crumpling it up and heading towards the door.

"So, you sure it's here?" The other man, one with a nasty scar on his cheek, muttered as they pushed through the front door.

"Sure, it's what the letter says," the blonde man huffed as they entered the old theater. The Monarch Theater had seen better days. The seat coverings were torn, and the red carpet that had once lined the floor was in a shaggy uprooted form. The beams supporting the balcony had a worrying number of cracks in it, and there were water stains from the leaks in the ceiling. Despite the nature of the dark building at that time of night, they weren't alone. Three other men were in the room. They were crowded at the center of the theater in the central aisle.

"Anyone try the light switch?" One of the newcomers asked at the general darkness of the room.

"Yeah," one of them, a man with a pencil mustache, said. "No power. I found these flashlights at the entrance."

"I thought we were here for a job, not flashlight tag," The blonde huffed.

"You guys get the message?" A man with a star tattoo on a neck asked as he rubbed his cigarette into his shoe. "Seems really weird to me." He pulled up the letter, which looked like a store-bought invitation card to a child's birthday.

"Yeah," the blonde shrugged. "You see the guy who sent it?"

"Nah, been waiting for 'bout ten minutes. He better show up, I tell you what."

"He can make me wait all day," the newcomer shrugged. "Got nothin' to do."

"This better be one hell of a job." The star tattoo man shook his head. "Ever since Penguin's been back, you either work for him, Thorne, or someone else in the big leagues. There's nobody left in town who's just a normal crook."

A recruit wearing glasses glanced around, "Damn it, it better be soon. If my parole officer found out I was here—"

"Nobody's gonna' be skulking around here," Pencil-stache huffed. "Nothin' here but old ghosts."

Suddenly, there was a sound, like a generator starting. The flashlights darted around the room. There was a sputter of light, and part of the room lit up. The projector turned on and cast its light on the far wall and highlighted the dust in the air. A reel started to play, but it only played a loop of a countdown. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Then again across the screen.

"The hell?"

"What was that you said, 'bout ghosts?" The spectacled man gulped.

A figure suddenly stepped onto the stage and stood in the light of the projector. He was wearing a tacky, brightly colored suit, and gloves covered his hands. He carried a large yellow carry-on bag with him. He wore a red ski mast that stood out on the background, leaving his identity concealed.

"Ghosts? I don't know about that. I'm very much alive. I think," The figure called from the stage of the theater with a bit of a laugh. "Gentlemen, I see you received my message. Here I am." With that, he took a little bow.

They were all in awed, confused silence. This was by far the strangest job offer they had ever received in their lives.

"Not talkative, are we?" the man said disappointedly. "Ah, well," he waved it off. "I'm not hiring you for your elocution; I just need a few hired guns."

Suddenly, the man reached into the bag and pulled out something. That something was unexpectedly flung at one of them. The blonde caught it and looked at what he was given as the same thing was thrown to the other men. It was a thick wad of fifty-dollar bills. A buzz seemed to come from them as they looked at the unexpected gift.

"What's the money for?" The star-tattoo man questioned.

"Ah, you _do _speak," The man spoke with a humorous condescension. "Well, I thought I would pay you upfront to show that I am very serious about doing business with you. A courtesy, if you will. If anything, you won't complain about the pay."

Pencil-stache asked, "And what's the job exactly?"

"Do what you do best: crime! Rob a few grocery stores, a bank or two, maybe an armored vehicle if you feel like it. Just go out there and have a grand old time of it. The only difference is you work for me, do what I say. Go when I say go. Later, we'll get more serious, but for now, make some noise."

"Make some noise? What about the other guys? They're not going to like us muscling in on their turf," the spectacled man asked.

"Penguin: lost his touch. Thorne: he's as vanilla as they come! No one knows how to do things anymore. No one knows how to plan an operation or carry it out since," there was a pause, then the man said with a certain reminiscing, "since _he_ came back."

There was an uncomfortable silence as the man on stage seemed to drift off into thought.

"Anyway, don't worry, they'll fall by the wayside soon enough," the man said. "My plan _will _succeed, we will take Gotham by storm, and we will put Penguin, Thorne, and whoever else stands in our way in their place at the bottom of the totem pole." He extended a hand out towards them. "So, what do you say, my _r-r_avishing _r-r_oguish _r-r_uffians?"

There was a moment of confused silence. Some of the would-be-recruits glanced at one another to gauge their response. Star-tattoo tilted his head to the side.

"I'm out." He huffed. "I've seen freak before, and I don't work for freaks. They always burn bright, burn out, and burn everyone down with them."

The colorful man gasped in mocking horror, "Surely, I can make you reconsider."

The guy puffed, "No chances, freak." He turned to the rest of them. "You guys want to live, take a hint—get out now."

There was a small murmur among the initiates, and all eyes fell on the hooded man for answers. There was a moment of stillness. They could feel his eyes on them in the dark. There was a chill in the air. Despite not seeing his expression, they could almost feel the anger radiating off of him. Suddenly a chuckle came from him.

"Well," he finally declared boisterously and jumped down into the aisle to approach them, "no harm, no foul. I bid you farewell with a handshake." The man held his hand out for the other to take. "I assure you. I am a man of manners, and I wish you the best of luck."

The man scowled at him, glared at the hand, and a cocky smirk crossed his face as he thought about crushing the freak's hand in his grip, "Sure, see you freak."

He gripped the colorful man's hand. Suddenly, the star-tattooed man stiffened, and his short hair stood on end. His eyes bugged out, his muscles spasmed, and his body shook uncontrollably. The group of recruits stepped back at the sight of smoke coming from the handshake. The colorful man looked like he didn't notice.

"Quiet the grip you've got," the man in the ski mask said simply as burn marks appeared on the flesh of the man's hand. "But, my hand is getting warm."

The colorful man relieved his grip, and the other man fell to the ground with a thud. His body kept spasming, causing his teeth to clack together. The rest of the group cursed and retreated backward. The man with the scar drew a handgun and pointed it at the red ski mask.

"You all look rather shocked," A gurgling laugh emanated from his throat. He took a look around at them. They could see the glint of pure glee in his eyes. "Oh, calm down, I just don't like _rude _people." When they didn't move, he looked over to the man with the scar. "You can kill me, or you can make something along the lines of—say—twenty times what I gave you." The man shrugged. "The choice is yours."

There was a long, tense silence. The eerie, calm demeanor of the man, set all of them on edge. A small bout of laughter entered the room. This time, it wasn't from the colorful man. The spectacled recruit was chuckling as he looked down at the still smoking corpse and the aghast expression it had. The others looked on with disbelief.

"He does look shocked," The man with glasses muttered as an explanation for his outburst.

"See," the colorful man clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm not the only one with a sense of humor. What say the rest of you?"

There was one final glance between them all, and then, the one with the gun lowered his arm.

"Yeah, sure, what the hell," The scarred one huffed. "The pay's good. No one's getting this much from Penguin."

"He was an asshole anyway," sighed pencil-stache as he looked at the corpse.

"I could use the cash," the blonde muttered.

The hooded man clapped his hands together in delight, "Excellent! That's the gung-ho spirit of the Gotham criminal that I love!"

"So, where do we hit first, er, boss?" A nervous smile crossed the blonde's face.

"Well," he kicked the foot of the corpse in the room. "First thing's first, dump him. And then—" The man reached into his suit pocket and tossed another red ski-mask at the man.

"What the hell is this for?" He asked as he took the red mask.

The colorful man laughed, "We're going to make some headlines."

* * *

**Ha-ha! I am alive! My last term killed my free time; this term might too. I'll try and update when I can.**

**Thank's for reading!**


	12. After All This Time

12\. After all this Time

It was the early hours of the morning, close to opening time. The aroma of fresh rolls was permeating the small bakery. The baker, a long-time resident of the city, was busy setting up shop for the day. He sighed as his prized rolls came out of the oven. It was a peaceful start to the day, and he was going to enjoy it. Tomorrow would be a little more stressful. His payment to his local "protection" group that kept him from having "accidents" was due tomorrow, and he always had a bit of a panic attack on those days. He knew it was the only thing that kept him from meeting a nasty end, and the stern demeanor of his trade partners never alleviated that stress. But that was tomorrow. Today, he was determined, would be a good day, and the smell of his rolls enforced that idea.

After pulling out the rolls, stocking shelves near the back of the store, and counting the cash register, he felt confident enough to unlock the front door and flip the sign to OPEN. It was only then that he noticed that he hadn't properly stocked the display on the right side. That wouldn't do, and he went right to fixing it. While bent over to restock the display, he heard the jingle of the bell from his shop door. The first customer of the day deserved the warmest smile. He pulled himself upright to greet the early bird.

"How can I help you . . ." his voice hung in the air, making a continuous sound, a whimpering hum after he saw the barrel of the gun pointed between his eyes. Beyond it, three men with red masks and red hoodies were visible. Still in his trance, a bag was shoved into his hands, and he finally came to with the sudden command.

"Open the register and put the money in the bag."

* * *

"The Red Hood gang? Again?" Gordon asked as he read the police report from a recent string of robberies.

"Back from the grave, I assume," Bullock muttered as he sat down in the chair opposite of him. "This is, what, the eighth rendition? Third in the past five years? It's like a bad play. It just doesn't go away, and some screwball thinks they can make it better."

"Well, have you been able to get anywhere with them?" Gordon hated being out of the loop so often now. Between the politicians and his daily work, he barely had time for any individual case unless it was brought specifically to his attention like this.

"Nah, these guys are tricky, we can't pin them down yet. They act from after sunrise to the middle of the day, ranging from a squad of two to four, sometimes having two co-occurring robberies. They don't really discriminate. They've hit a bakery, a toy store, mom-and-pop convenience store, a movie theater box, a closing bar, they were all quick robberies—in and out in under two minutes, all within that past week. The usual score is a couple thousand bucks. They can't be making too much from this, and we can't really figure out a pattern."

Bullock stood and went over to a map of Gotham hanging on a corkboard. He picked up a cup of pins and started putting them in place where the robberies occurred.

"Right now, the three most recent events are in the Diamond District and the surrounding area, but we're not sure how or why. They've gone really deep into Thorne's territory, though."

"Do you think Penguin's put them up to it?" It wasn't the first time the group had been assembled for some underhanded purpose. One of the previous renditions was found to have had been tied to the Irish mob.

"No, other places that Penguin has under his control were hit as well. Here, here, and here. Alvarez has been investigating into it, but he can't find any word on the street about these guys. They're really tight-knit; no one's got a clue as to who it might be. Many are afraid of them for it. I got a store clerk begging me to assign police protection to him because he swore he was next. We've been increasing the patrol around here, but once we do it in one area, they hit another."

Gordon thought for a moment, "There's got to be some kind of connection, some other motive to be this brazen. They're going after both of the major crime lords in the city, making a small return, drawing attention to themselves, and making a big show of it. It seems like someone's trying to muscle their way in."

"Yeah, well, whoever they are, they're suicidal to do so," Bullock shook his head. "Hell'uva way to go, pissing off the two biggest guys on the block. I'd hate to be the guy to scrub them off a wall."

Unbeknownst to them, a figure appeared in the downstairs GCPD room. Some officers stood up as they noticed him. Lieutenant Harper approached the figure with caution.

"Well, we'll knock them down like we always do," Gordon mumbled as he read the report. "Hopefully, we get to them before Oswald does. Hate to see what he'd do to them."

"Guillotine for sure," Bullock allowed a cocky grin to cross his face, "What in the last month or so we've had Penguin out, Jeremiah die, a kook in a mask threaten to blow up something, and the Red Hood Gang come back? Jim, I'm getting nostalgic."

Gordon smiled a little, "I feel like that's almost a bad thing."

There was a knock at the door. Gordon told them to come in, and Harper opened the door. She seemed a bit worried as she stepped in.

"Commissioner, I'm sorry to bother you, but there's a bit of a—"

Suddenly, a large hand rested on her shoulder and pulled her back, "Thank you, my dear, for escorting me to the Commissioner's office." Rupert Thorne appeared in the doorway and pushed past Harper.

"Speak of the Devil," Bullock breathed.

Both Bullock and Gordon stood up, and a moment of tension shot through the room. Harper glanced to a slightly surprised Gordon, who simply nodded to dismiss her. She closed the door as she left. The aging, overweight, well-dressed man stepped into the office with a sense of arrogance.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Thorne glanced from Gordon to Bullock and took the seat that Bullock once occupied. He sat like a man at his own desk. Bullock stood behind him near the map.

Gordon didn't allow emotion to cross his face. Thorne was one of the grubby hands who scooped up a chunk of land while the price was low. The first time Gordon had heard his name was eight or nine years ago when Kean was complaining about how he was moving in on her potential land buys. The second time was in a drug bust, where the dealer mentioned his name; the unfortunate snitch ended up hanged in his cell before anything else could be learned from him. Officially, Thorne owned land, warehouses, industrial chemical plant, and several local soup kitchens. Unofficially, he ran the drug trade, racketeering, arms trade, and was rumored to be in human trafficking. Yet, like almost every other criminal kingpin in Gotham, he seemed to be untouchable and had too good of a public rep to be searched without a concrete reason. But, the moment he slipped up on his taxes or kicked a puppy, they'd be on him.

Small pleasantries were out of the question when dealing with someone like him, "What the hell are you doing here, Thorne?"

"Quite the rude introduction Gordon, but I guess that's what I can expect from the dog who's been barking up the wrong tree since the beginning," Thorne dismissed. "Now, can we be civil? How is your family?"

"I don't familiarize myself with those suspected of criminal activity, especially those I've served search warrants," warrants that led to no discoveries. Thorne was good at hiding.

"Cobblepot used to waltz right in and demand whatever he wanted; I don't see why I can't do the same."

"You're scrounging up ancient history, Thorne. Cobblepot isn't welcome here, and neither are you."

"Please commissioner," Thorn waved him off. "I come as a concerned citizen. I see things going south, and I want the police to take action. I don't think that's happening."

Gordon scowled, "What are you talking about?"

Thorne seemed annoyed that he had to spell it out, "I'm talking about the police's absolute inability to deal with vigilantes these days. It's created an absolute mess in Gotham, and I don't think enough is being done about it. In fact, I see no action being taken. It's very disturbing."

"Do I sense some quaking in those shoes of yours?" Bullock asked.

"Whatever you think you have on me, I'm sure it's nothing but a misunderstanding," Thorne scowled at Bullock. "I hope there's nothing more sinister behind those accusations. However, as an honest businessman, I am concerned about what exactly this could mean for the economy and the safety of my workers and their workplace. Vigilantes are often excessively violent, and let's face it; a man who dresses up as a bat cannot be in his right mind. Some are saying we're on the verge of another Valeska crisis. That does not inspire people to _invest_ in my product."

"Of course," Bullock spoke again. "Chemicals and warehouses are the first things to take a hit when vigilantes are skulking around."

"That kind of indifferent attitude is why I'm concerned about the safety in this city. There isn't as much police work going into this as I saw in other cases. I'm thinking about filing a civil suit for the lack of action I see in the GCPD when it comes to dealing with that danger."

"A civil suit won't get you anything," Gordon assured. "I assure you, we're working on it; I have teams ready to deal with him. You can't sue us for coming up empty-handed."

"Maybe, maybe not, but a lawsuit and a media campaign would bring attention to police inadequacies," Thorne glanced down at the table. "Like your dealings with the Red Hood gang crime spree over the past couple of days. It seems you've lost your touch."

"As have you since someone's going after your businesses," Gordon reminded him.

"Lucky for me, my position in my company is not based on a vote of confidence from our ever-fickle mayor. You know how much he hates to see mud on his reputation. He might find his city needs to be in better hands."

"And you think this will do it?" Gordon didn't take the threat lightly; he wasn't going to be pushed around. "I could always dig around in some old cases, see if we missed anything."

The older man just shook his head, "My lawyers would have a wonderful time picking through whatever 'case' you think you can bring against me. It'll just show another example of how the GCPD is more interested in an enterprising businessman than violent felons. Besides, I think the civil suit will inspire you to get your job done and focus on the real threats," Thorne allowed a smile to appear as he stood from his chair. "I'll leave it at that." He stood up and walked towards the door. "One month, Gordon, that should give you enough time to deal with him. Then I think I'll turn on the heat."

The door slammed close behind him.

"Piece of work," Bullock muttered.

Gordon sighed, "It says something about him if he's coming to us. Obviously, he's desperate and worried about the Bat turning his focus away from Penguin and coming after him. The Red Hood Gang must be taking a toll on his revenue. I'm not completely against what he wants, getting both of them off the streets would be good. But I don't like having a casual partnership with Thorne, especially when we can't get a lead on either of our suspects, and he's trying to hold stuff over our heads."

Bullock thought for a moment, "You don't think he's gone, do you? The ba—Ghost, I mean. Word on the street is that Penguin took him down, and it's been a week since we've seen him."

Gordon shook his head, "I wouldn't take it too seriously; Penguin is always over-eager to declare people dead. I doubt it will be long before we see him again."

* * *

Bruce sat at his computer while slowly lifting a weight, retraining his wounded arm. Most people would still be forced to stay in a hospital bed, let alone start physical therapy only one week after being shot, but he wasn't most people. He couldn't afford a long sabbatical from his work, not when it meant someone's life could be in danger. That didn't mean that he wasn't nagged into remaining relatively concealed for the time being. His arm was incredibly stiff and aching; fighting one-handed didn't seem to be the best option. For now, he decided to expand his information network and stake out a few more places in a civilian disguise as well as turn his attention to some detective work.

The Red Hood gang case seemed to intrigue him most at the moment. It was stirring up quite the panic in the media due to the random hits and times. The fact that they hit stores during broad daylight was a clear sign. They wanted to avoid him. Bruce knew that this was a potential side effect of his presence: after realizing the pattern of the vigilante, they'd start migrating to daytime crime. It was one that he was hoping the police could compensate for, but these bandits seemed to be untouchable, despite all police efforts.

However, with all of his access to police databases, he couldn't help but notice that they were missing a big potential detail. About two weeks prior, a convenience store went up in flames. It was suspected arson, but it was strange because certain items, such as the outdoor propane tanks, were missing. When the police tried to cobble together something from the CCTV circuit, they found the surprisingly salvaged VCR missing its tape. Another note on the police report cited a witness describing a "man with a hood" entering the building. It was unusual, to say the least. Perhaps it was the first time the Red Hood gang hit, but it was in the middle of the night, unlike the other ones. Perhaps it was the catalyst for their return. Either way, he felt like he needed to potentially provide this information to Gordon, preferably through an anonymous tip, but he needed to compile a bit more information before he felt like it could be useful.

Besides the extra hours spent on research, the injury gave Bruce time to think; thinking led to new ideas for improvement to his gear. Lucius was eager to start improving as much as he was eager to get out of his stuffy office. He thoroughly enjoyed creating new gear and improvements for the vigilante project, but he didn't seem pleased that the work-in-progress's problem had been exposed with a potentially life-threatening shot. He even decided to come down into the cave to work on looking at future potential projects and patching the suit. As always, they worked within talking distance, but neither of them spoke, which was comfortable for one of them.

Lucius, working on replacing the busted bulletproof breastplate and growing tired of the ever-present, ever-silent man, started to joke, "I thought I told you the armor couldn't take short-range shotgun blasts."

Bruce allowed a smirk, "It wasn't like I was planning on it. Cobblepot had a hidden weapon."

"Mr. Wayne, I hardly think anyone plans on getting shot. Besides, it's kind of hard to hide a shotgun. Was it the old flower box trick or the violin case?"

"Umbrella."

"Umbrella?" Lucius was intrigued by this idea. "That would require a compact design if you wanted it to have the same capabilities as a shotgun. Oswald's got quite the engineer on his hands."

"Hopefully, mine is better," Bruce nodded, taking a look at some of the designs Lucius brought over. "Can you make the new cowl have thermal vision as well?"

"Thermal too? I'm already working on night vision that doesn't blind you when someone turns on a lamp. Thermal might take a while." He shook his head. "I'm sorry it's taken me a while to get over here, between the board, my family, and this, it's been a bit of a stretch to find time to make it over here and not make it look like I'm meeting a secret mistress or something. My wife teased me about it when I spent those all-nighters making the suit. I'm going to need to build an addition into Wayne Tower so that I can work from there when all I'm doing is twiddling my thumbs."

"I'll sign a blank check if you get it done," He stood up and headed towards the armory; Alfred came out of the elevator with a tray of tea. "You'll have a few more vacation days, too, for your family."

"Thank you, but I fear if I take a vacation, Wayne Enterprises wouldn't know what to do with itself," Lucius didn't know if Bruce's spending habits came from generosity or his vehement disinterest in how he spent his money. Probably both.

Alfred smirked as he brought over some tea for his friend, "Don't worry, Lucius, he keeps trying to get me to take a vacation as well."

"Is the spare armor ready to go?" Bruce asked as he pulled a glove over his hand.

"Yep, ready to go," Lucius confirmed as he continued to examine the busted armor. He only stopped when he heard the car's engine start, and a dark figure passed him. "You're not thinking about going out there right now, are you?" Lucius asked.

"I've got a lead to follow," Bruce said as he jumped into the car. The engine revved, and he was off into the night.

"Not much for goodbyes is he," Lucius smirked.

Alfred sighed, "He never really was."

* * *

"I hate this wig," Selina muttered as the fake blonde hair fell into her face yet again as she made her way up the stairs with her baggage.

Selina lugged her groceries and takeout bag into the apartment. She immediately put it onto the kitchen island with tired carelessness. She removed the sunglasses and wig and put them on a stand near the door. They were an annoyance but a necessity. There was a BOLO out on her after all. Usually, she'd skip town, but she couldn't anymore. Things were just getting in the way again; it felt wrong to leave now. Oh, she should have never come back. Of course, she would have sent Jason to do the shopping at the convenience store not too far from there hideout, but he was nowhere to be seen. She wasn't keen on waiting hours just to have some dinner.

There was a tug at her leg, and she looked down to find Milky wrapping her tail around her.

"Hungry? Don't worry. I've got something for that," She then called out. "Hey, kid, come and get some dinner. I got Chinese from that place you like."

There was no response. She waited for a second and then checked the other rooms for him. He was nowhere to be found.

"Is he at it again?" She asked Milky, who was sitting on the pillow that Jason used for a bed.

She meowed in response.

"Great."

Selina got dressed again, grabbed a bag, and went to the rooftop. It was dark enough now that she could probably see him from the top of her building. The behavior had been going on for a while. Usually, she'd simply wait until he came home in the early morning and crashed into the sofa, but she was getting tired of him sleeping through the day on the couch. Maybe she could finally knock some sense into him and figure out what was keeping him up all night.

Selina found him on top of a building two blocks down. It was easy, given the kid had the same MO: Christmas lights tied to a pole on top of some building or another. She was able to spot him from the roof and was there within a couple of minutes.

When she climbed her way up the fire escape to the top of the building, she was greeted with a pitiful sight. The flashing Christmas lights were attached to a water tower in a stringy fashion. The kid had some cracked binoculars and was scouring the distance while holding a flashlight in the other. Selina smirked a little and sneaked her way up behind him. He looked so stoic, so adamant about completing his task. It almost made her laugh. She tapped him on the head, and he whirled around.

"Batman—" Jason stopped, and his expression fell as he realized who it was. "Oh, hey."

"So that's why you've been sneaking out; you're trying to get a look at him," Selina snarked. "Look, it's not my problem if you want to be put back in the orphanage, but I'm not breaking you out again."

Jason huffed, "I wouldn't _need_ your help to get out again."

Selina looked over the horizon for a second before adding, "You could just bust a window or shoplift and wait for him to show up."

Jason seemed annoyed that she kept prying, "Just leave, ok?"

"Is this because I took down your wall of crazy?" Selina asked. Honestly, after knowing the truth about the vigilante, she wasn't keen on seeing reminders of him on the wall of her living room. The only way Jason was able to keep it was in a small journal that was now pasted with the newspaper clippings. Jason shook his head, though, and tried to keep his eyes on the horizon. "Are you afraid he won't show up if I'm here?"

"He wouldn't exactly be friendly if you were here; then I wouldn't be able to tell—" He shut his mouth. "Just go."

"Tell him what?" She frowned. "Look, kid, it's not natural for someone to be kidnapped and then want to talk to their kidnapper suddenly. Do I have to undo some kind of Stockholm syndrome?"

"No, it's just." He sighed. "I kind of get his cause y'know. I just think that if the big guys like Penguin and Thorne were dealt with, it would be a lot better for a lot of people. So, I found some information that could help him out," Jason muttered. "Found a couple of things, actually."

Selina became suspicious; she knit her eyebrows together, "So, you're like his snitch now? Are you planning on ratting us out?"

"No, no!" He insisted quickly. "I'm not going to say anything about us. That's why I have the lights on this rooftop and not ours. I'm not going to let him track me, ok? I just want him to take down some of the really bad guys, and now that I know something, I think I can give it to him. He can take care of the problem for us."

"Oh, bitten by the altruism bug, are we?" She teased.

"No," Jason scoffed, trying to maintain his tough-guy demeanor. "It's just not good for the community to have these leaches here. If they go, people get richer here, and I'm not stealing crumbs anymore. Y'know, the trickle-down thing, or something like that." He waved her off.

She found herself smirk a little as he looked off again, "So, you use old Christmas lights to send the message?"

"I don't know, I figure it's the only way to contact him—you know, aside from causing trouble. I mean, if he tends to travel the rooftops, then it'll catch his attention."

It was cute, she had to admit. Something occurred to her, and her face fell, "Is that why you were sitting on top of the orphanage? You just wanted to talk to him?"

"Well, you know how Cobblepott's been bragging about shooting him and all? He came to the orphanage that day, and I overheard that there was going to be a trap for the Bat. I tried to warn him, but. . ." Jason became quiet for a moment. "He could be dead now, no one's seen or heard from him in a week. I'm just trying to see if he's alive right now. I knew that something was going to happen, but I wasn't able to tell him. If I had told him sooner maybe. . ."

The kid's voice drifted, and he looked down. Selina could see the hurt in his expression. She mulled it over for a moment. He obviously felt guilty about not being able to warn him in time, and, little did he know, his guilt was for nothing. She couldn't have the kid worrying for weeks on end while Bruce got over his shoulder injury. Maybe if he stopped blaming himself for the ambush, it wouldn't be so hard on him, and he could get over his would-be captor.

"He's not dead," Selina sighed, annoyed. "He was shot up pretty bad, but he's getting better."

Jason paused and was immediately suspicious, "How do you know?"

Selina knew the kid was too smart to let it slide. She just shrugged it off, "Doesn't seem like the kind of guy to die suddenly."

Jason wasn't buying it. He scanned her face, but that yielded nothing. He thought for a moment. She had seemed so spiteful of him when he was mentioned, and the first thing she did after she took him home was take down the newspaper clippings. She spoke about him with familiarity, and now she knew he had gotten shot. It was all too coincidental. Then it clicked in his head.

"Wait, do you know the guy?" Jason asked incredulously.

Selina sighed and nodded slowly, "Yeah, something like that. I didn't realize it until I fought him, but I know him."

"Woah, woah," The kid didn't want to let it go. "So, you've just known who he is, and you just haven't mentioned it."

"I don't think that was any of your business."

Jason wasn't paying mind to her as ideas were racing through his head. "Who is he exactly? How do you know it's him? How did you meet? Can you tell him what I've got for him or get him to meet me?"

Selina knew she shouldn't have said anything, "We're not on great terms, kid."

"Oh, yeah," Jason muttered, "We're not exactly decent people."

Selina wished that was the only reason. She would prefer her annoyance with Bruce to be purely professional, but it couldn't be that simple. She didn't want Jason mixed up in a similar mess. Maybe she could persuade him away from Bruce and set him straight.

"Yeah, you're either a goody two shoes or just another criminal to him. Don't let him get under your skin. He doesn't want your help. He left you at an orphanage."

"That's because he couldn't see my potential," Jason reassured. "I just need to show I can give him information. I just need to prove myself."

"You don't have to prove yourself," She snapped suddenly; she couldn't let him feel that way. He didn't need to prove himself to Bruce. "And what are you proving yourself for: a pat on the head?"

"I don't know. He's changing things," Jason shrugged. "The guy takes on the whole of the underworld, and they're the ones bleeding. I wouldn't mind learning how to do that."

"That's suicide, you understand. What he's doing is crazy," Selina felt like the kid was slipping away from her for a second. She couldn't have him get these crazy, Bruce-influenced ideas in his head. "You're only going to get hurt. It's not worth it."

"Weren't you the one who asked if I wanted to do more than survive?" Jason argued. "I'm trying to do that."

She hated it when people threw her own words back at her, "And you're doing it with someone who doesn't care enough about you. He doesn't care about you or me, just his selfish desires." She let out a bit more pent up aggression then she meant to. "Why would he have left you? Why else would he have abandoned you when you were hurt and alone?"

Jason pulled back for a moment at the sudden emotional outburst. She could practically see the gears turning in his head. "Wait. . ." A small smile came up. "Is he like your ex or something?"

She hated how quick he was sometimes. It was Selina's turn to be avoidant, "I don't see how that's important."

His eyes went wide, and his grin wider, "It makes so much sense now! I thought you were staying around for me or something, but it's clear now. You just want to screw with him."

"You're looking too deeply into this. I just want one more clean score before I go. And I'm telling you to stay away from him because he's bad news."

A sly smile appeared on his face, "You're just bitter."

"I'm experienced," She made a face and rolled her eyes and reached into the bag she brought. "I'm not having this conversation. You do what you want, just don't lead him back to the hideout."

"Oh, don't worry, I can understand how awkward that could be," He teased as she pulled out his takeout box.

"I'm just saying that if he finds the apartment, he'll be able to find the diamond, and you won't be paid when I sell it, and you're sure as hell not getting my apartment," she slapped the takeout box in his hand. "Take care of yourself. Don't let him get you into trouble, alright. Happy bat watching." With that, she headed towards the fire escape.

"Sure, you don't want to wait up with me to meet your boyfriend?" Jason called after her, she didn't acknowledge it. Jason paused a moment before asking, "Want me to tell him something when he shows up?"

Selina paused for a moment. Oh, there was so much that she could say with that opportunity. She knew she could send him a message, an ultimate "screw you" to finalize it yet again, but she didn't feel like that was right. If anything, it felt dirty, disingenuous, spiteful. Maybe she should just say nothing. Then something came to mind. She almost scolded herself for how sentimental it sounded in her head. She really shouldn't encourage him, but she should at least acknowledge it. It was a response that she at least owed Bruce, or at least, a past version of him. There was a low chance that Jay would remember in his starstruck phase to tell him the message. Hell, if Bruce even met with the kid, it would be a miracle. Might as well shoot in the dark.

"Tell him," She paused for a moment. "Tell him, 'Thanks for the postcard.'"

With that, she was gone.

* * *

The lead was out of the city, in a downtown portion of Blüdhaven. It hadn't taken long to find. In fact, Bruce had known about the place for a while and was looking for an excuse to investigate. Tonight would be that opportunity since its occupant would be working the late shift. Alfred insisted on the radio that he be careful with his healing arm. Bruce had reassured that he wouldn't be getting into any fights, and he wouldn't be straining it too much, but he couldn't shake the sharp pain that ran through his shoulder as he used his good arm to grapple to the roof of a building. But it was worth it. The apartment that belonged to Ecco lay below him.

He had to be sure that there wasn't a chance that Jeremiah was alive. Being the only person who cared enough to kidnap him, Ecco was the primary suspect. Part of him hoped that he was wrong to suspect her; he decided to suppress that feeling. He couldn't allow his hope that Jeremiah was gone to influence his reasoning. He had to be sure. Part of him feared that Alfred's prediction of a "young woman with nothing but a body" was true.

Bruce entered the apartment with ease. The window was cracked, and no one was home, even at this late hour. His first job was to establish a perimeter. Working in the dark gave him the advantage to avoid being seen by anyone outside of the apartment. He worked with minimal light, and he worked fast. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The small apartment only held a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Nothing seemed out of place more than a normal home. If he was looking for a vegetable of a man, there would have been a wheelchair or unusual extra medicines in her cabinet.

His exploration through the apartment led to some interesting looks into the woman's life. He looked at the fridge, magnetized to it was an acceptance letter to the Gotham University Psych program along with a calendar planning out her day. That was further confirmed when he found a stack of psychology schoolbooks and a half-answered take-home test. Nothing out of the ordinary there either. Everywhere he looked, everything seemed like a normal, single-person household, if overflowing with self-help books. He would have counted it almost suspiciously normal.

Eventually, he came across a more abnormal object in her apartment. The typewriter was placed near the window. There were piles of pages neatly stashed in a drawer. He pulled out a small flashlight from his belt. He slowly pulled out the manuscript and flipped through it. It looked like a memoir of sorts. He flipped through the stack until he came to the first body paragraph.

His fingers traced the page as he read the intro.

_As a survivor of No Man's land, I, like others in that situation, devolved to a base, animal psychological state. However, I was probably among the worst—clinging to a man who provided safety and very little else. But I paid the price for it with my mind._

Bruce was taken aback by the level of introspection in the writings. He couldn't see the writer and the cartoonish, deranged cult leader being the same person. He flipped through what seemed to be a remorseful memoir. Descriptions of No Man's Land and her life with Jeremiah were carefully documented, as was her feelings towards him.

_I thought he truly cared for me like I did him. He used to be so soft and reserved and brilliant. Even when he changed, I thought that it was just another phase, another version of him, a stronger version. I was wrong. He committed murder with a want and need for chaos and destruction. I fueled that in every possible way providing him anything he could ever want or desire. I satiated his bloodlust with a grin and a bow._

He had never known too much about Ecco. She had been flipped between stoic or absolutely insane when he saw her. Even what little he had pulled up about her past led to very little in the ways of information into her personality outside of her achievements in the fields of gymnastics and marksmanship. She was a bit of a social ghost. He figured it was a good enough way to learn about her, so he kept reading. He flipped through a couple more pages of remorse and introspection and came across another thing that caught his eye.

_Bruce Wayne was his fascination, though I never understood why. He seemed to excite Jeremiah's imagination and obsession in a way that nothing else had since his brother. Sometimes I wonder if even he knew why. His thought process seemed so haphazard; it might have even been a randomized choice._

This kind of mystery seemed to surround Jeremiah after he fell into his vegetable state. The city still whispered his name like an urban legend due to his less theatrical nature and the fact that he was seen by very few sane, still-living eyes when compared to his brother. Some even questioned if he was a clone or the ghost of Jerome. Bruce was the only one who knew the whole truth; he was a man twisted into evil because of what he saw in Bruce. Bruce had some kind of darkness in him, and Jeremiah felt it needed to be cultivated to create a "connection" between them. A friend, kindred spirit, brother: the label didn't matter, Jeremiah sought to solidify that, and he destroyed everything to do so. Jeremiah had demonstrated how far he was willing to go when he shot Selina, blew the bridges, and tried to recreate his parent's murder. The memory of those events still haunted him. Bruce knew this was why he needed to make sure that Jeremiah was absolutely gone. He could never come back to destroy everything again.

Bruce shook his head and continued to search for something else. The next thing he read was something relatively new and was still in the typewriter. He shined his flashlight on the paper:

_When I heard that he had died, I felt a weight lift, like I was free from the last of my insanity—the insanity he put on me. I could be completely free of my past. I never have to see him again, and he can't haunt me anymore. I thought I could have lived for him before; I dedicated everything to him. Instead, I only hurt myself. His death was the only release from that pain._

**_Clink._**

The sound of rattling keys jerked Bruce out of his trance. He glanced back to the front door to the apartment. Bruce quickly fished into his belt and produced a small listening device and planted it under the table; then he disappeared from sight. By the time the door opened and someone stepped in, Bruce was on the rooftop of the building opposite the apartment. Everything had been stashed away; it was like he had never been there. From there, he watched as the resident came to the typewriter and turned on a light.

The woman he saw in the light seemed different than he expected. This was not the stoic proxy nor the psychotic jester that Bruce had seen before. Her light blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun, and her waitress outfit was stained. She seemed tired, worn if a bit peaceful. She seemed to glance about lazily.

Ecco traced her hand along the table that held the typewriter. A sense of suspicion was evident on her face. She seemed to study it for a second, and Bruce wondered if she knew that he had been there. He had made sure to leave no trace. Then her eye went to the paper, and she sighed and sat down in front of it. She mouthed the words on the page and seemed to type something out before shaking her head and searching her drawers for whiteout. It seemed strange to see her doing this, considering the last time he saw her, she was threatening to poison the Gotham river. It seemed surreal, in a sense.

Suddenly, a light was cast over her from behind as the front door opened behind her. A shadowed figure stepped in through the door and closed it. Ecco seemed too deep in her thoughts to notice. Bruce found his hand wrap around one of his bat-shaped shurikens. He didn't want to blow his cover, but if she was going to be assaulted, he couldn't stand by and let it happen. The shadowed figure snuck up behind her on his toes. Something seemed off about the figure. Even with a limited perspective, there was a similarity to something. The build and height, the way he walked, it was vaguely familiar.

Bruce gripped his shuriken tighter. It couldn't be—he was. . . there had been stranger things. It was just like he had predicted. Ecco had somehow smuggled him out and nursed him back to health. The stuff on the typewriter was just to throw anyone suspicious off their scent. Bruce needed to take him out now before something went wrong. He stopped himself. He needed to be absolutely sure before he revealed himself, so he watched him sneak up behind her. He hovered over her for a moment as if scanning the page in front of her. Suddenly, the arm snatched around her neck, and a face came into the light of the desk lamp.

"Mason!" Ecco laughed as the shadow hooked his arms around her, and he nuzzled her neck. "Don't scare me like that!"

Bruce lowered his hand as he saw the man: black hair, brown eyes, tanned skin—not Jeremiah, not even close. Bruce stuck to the shadows as he watched the scene unfold.

The man tapped her paper; he spoke in a thick Jersey accent, "Back to writing again so soon after work? Tell me, when's this best seller going to hit the shelves?"

She gave him a sad smile, "Oh, maybe never. Sometimes I just can't find the words, others I repeat myself and others still I find myself writing about some of the strangest things."

He leaned over and pulled out a page from the stack, "I really like the random story about the hyenas. 'Female hyenas are dominant and strong, which is why I go to the zoo to watch them every weekend.' It says a lot 'bout you."

Ecco seemed to sigh, "Yeah, yeah, but I don't like what the rest of the story says about me. I know you know what I was like, but I just don't think I want to reveal myself to the rest of the world." She spoke softly, "I did a lot of things that I'm not proud of. I—I did some seriously messed up stuff. I know that now but . . . I don't know if I can share that part of the story."

"Well, it don't need to be a tell-all; there's no need to bleed yourself in front of everyone," He paused for a moment. "Maybe you don't need to publish it, just get it off your chest. Just ask yourself the important questions: Why'd you start writing this in the first place?"

"Well," She smiled a little. "Paying the rent on time would be nice, but," she slowed a bit. "I got better. I guess I just want other people to know they can too."

Bruce paused for a moment. Maybe Alfred was right, Jeremiah was dead. The evidence supported it, the DNA, Ecco's innocence, the files recording his death. He admitted he was being particularly paranoid. Jeremiah had been the worst of the worst, the only man in Gotham who got furthest in destroying it, the man who almost killed everyone he cared for. The man had scarred him deeper than any adversary before. It would be natural that he would be profusely paranoid. Seeing Ecco, a woman who had stood at Jeremiah's side the entire time and swooned at each destructive order, return to some form of a normal, constructive life gave him a glimmer of hope. Maybe, there was some reason to hope for Gotham.

As the woman who was once Ecco and her boyfriend kept talking, Bruce found himself slip away. He suddenly felt like an intruder. If she had changed, truly changed, then he was happy for her. It still didn't stop the small part of him that still felt it was a good idea to keep at least one bug in the apartment, just for safekeeping, but he was glad that she had found closure after Jeremiah. Maybe he needed that too.

So, he disappeared into the night.

* * *

**I am still breathing. You can add "my productivity" to the list of things 2020 has damaged. Thank you as always for your favs, follows, and reviews, and thank you for reading!**


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